


The Outlaw McCree

by Cawaiiey



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Background Relationships, M/M, Medieval AU, Robin Hood AU, Slow Burn, Young Hanzo, Young McCree, bandit!McCree, hey ho i can't stop thinking about this damn au, sheltered prince!Hanzo, tags to be updated, unhealthy father-son relationship, various types of magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: They speak of him in hushed whispers across the kingdom of York- a bandit, emptying the coffers from the town treasuries, only to give all that was stolen back to to those it was originally taken from. He's known only as "the Outlaw McCree". King Shimada is not happy with the acts of thievery going unpunished, and sends his eldest son to take care of their bandit problem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY I LITERALLY CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS i love robin hood and mccree just screams robin hood  
> hanzo comes into this later btw  
> this is just the prologue  
> ENJOY

“Please, sire, I swear, I didn’t do-” The words are cut off by his own scream ripping out of his throat, echoing down the stone halls of the castle. Maids and butlers hurry by the double doors to the throne room, pointedly ignoring the sounds from the inside. What King Shimada does behind closed doors is no concern to them- besides, they know why he’s here. 

It’s been common gossip amongst the townships of late- hushed whispers of a band of thieves who steal from the township treasury and give back to those whose money was taken from them for tax purposes. It’s been happening for almost a month now, and the toll that the kingdom’s accounts had taken due to the lack of income was noticeable enough now for the king to take action. And he did so in the most cruel of ways- sending some of his royal guard into one of the more poor of the surrounding townships, who were rumored to have been visited by this troupe, to capture some hapless, no-name pauper. He was brought into the castle, bound and gagged, and thrown at the feet of King Sojiro Shimada. 

“Tell me, pauper,” King Shimada snarls, gripping the front of the man’s filthy shirt and hauling up off the ground, “who is it that is doing  _ this _ ?” He hisses out his words, a nasty sneer curling his lips that the pauper trembles at in his grip. Hands grabbing weakly at the king’s arm, he whimpers and blubbers, tears drawing tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. His face is already swollen on one side from just a scant hour of Sojiro’s torture, and his ankle is sprained but not broken. He doubts it will stay that healthy for long. The panic that settles in his midsection is icy and insistent. 

“I-I, sire, I do not know what you me-” 

Sojiro hurls him to the cold stone ground, knocking the air out of his lungs and barely giving him a moment to suck in a desperate breath before he’s placing one heeled-boot on the man’s throat and pushing down. The pauper’s eyes widen, his hands grabbing at the sleek, shiny leather of his shoes and trying to drag in ragged breaths through his mouth. King Sojiro bends at the waist to lock his sharp, furious eyes with the pauper’s glassy, puffy ones. 

“I will ask you again.  _ Who _ is it?” 

Choked, pushed out through his tight windpipe, the pauper manages to respond, “I’m sorry, sire, what-” 

He tries to scream but it comes out as barely a whistle with the tip of Sojiro’s shoe digging into his throat, constricting the flow of air. With eyes still locked, he speaks in a clipped, eerily calm tone- 

“Who. Is. Stealing. From. The. Town. Treasuries?” 

With his foot still on his throat, King Sojiro releases just a bit of the pressure, just enough for him to suck in a wheezing breath, and to answer him, if he so chooses. The pauper can feel dread in his veins, and knows he cannot protect the thief for much longer- not if he values his life. He just hopes that the rogue can forgive him for divulging his name as such. 

“Th-They call him,” he rasps out, rushing through his words with the threat of Sojiro’s boot against his throat still foreboding, the promise of agonizing torture at the forefront of his mind, “the Outlaw--”

“McCree!!” 

His name is bellowed out in pure rage as he throws himself bodily out of the second-story window of the treasury. Jesse had to admit that it might not have been the  _ best _ idea to do so, but what was the act of stealing without a bit of  _ dramatics _ , eh? The guard that had found him emptying the coffers of all but a few gold coins (he had to pay taxes  _ somehow _ , right?) had taken a few moments to react, and that was all he needed to clip the burlap sack to the worn leather belt cinched around his waist, give the man a two-fingered salute, and make his escape. 

The look on the guard’s face, framed by the heavy chainmail, was absolutely  _ priceless. _

The laundry line strung between the roof of the inn across the street and the treasury was great to help slow down his descent, as his gloved hands wrapped tightly around the corded rope. Jesse silently thanks his upper body strength, arms barely aching from the sudden stop.  He swings around it once- twice- three times before falling to the ground in a roll.  _ And he sticks the landing _ , McCree thinks to himself. He casts a look over his forest-green cloaked shoulder to catch sight of a flustered, red-faced guard watching him from the open window. Never one to leave his enemies without the last laugh, McCree shoots him a grin before turning around to shrug and chuckle lowly at him. The more-than-familiar chime of the guard tower bell ringing echoes through the streets. 

“Sorry, can’t stay for long,” he calls out through cupped hands up at the slack-jawed guard, “I’ve got an appointment I’m almost late for.” Jesse salutes the man once more, unable to suppress the pure, shit-eating grin on his face, before he turns tail and runs. He can hear the familiar  _ clank clank _ of armored guards chasing after him.  _ Aw, a welcome wagon for lil’ ol’ me?  _ McCree can’t help the manic giggle that bubbles up and out of his throat. The adrenaline that surges through his veins is equal parts ice and fire, and he gives in to the desire to throw his head back and hoot in joy. 

With a grin on his face, he sprints round the corner of the cobblestone walkway street to an abandoned alleyway, flanked on either side by decrepit buildings covered in winding vines. McCree eyes the end of the alley with a smile, even though it’s a cobblestone wall of almost twice his height. He jogs to the end of it, listening to the clinking sound of coins at his side with a smile. The bag of gold hooked onto his belt is heavy, but welcome. The guards behind him, heaving and panting, slide to a stop at the entrance to the alley.  _ Finally _ . He was starting to wondering if there would be even a  _ hint _ of challenge to this heist. McCree turns on his heel to shoot the two of them a roguish grin, while counting down the seconds in his head. 

_ 30, 29, 28…  _

“Hello there, fellas, fancy meeting you here,” the thief says, backing away towards the wall directly behind him.  _ 24, 23, 22…  _ Every step has the bag at his side swaying with the sound of clinking coins, practically cacophonous in the tense quiet. Jesse finds it calming. He watches one of them turn their head to look at his burlap sack nervously as they both point their long spears at him.  _ Excellent, already distracted.  _ Jesse raises his hands in mock surrender, lips pulled into a calm smirk. “Whoa now, ‘m not lookin’ for any sort of trouble now. Jus’-” 

“Silence!” One of them hollers, his voice echoing hollow in the steel helmet on his head. The tip of his spear shakes just the slightest bit, and Jesse’s lips pull back into a more feral grin. Must be a rookie.  _ 12, 11, 10…  _ That guard shoves his spear forward, the pointed tip of it glinting almost menacingly in the dying sunlight.  _ Almost _ . McCree gives it an appraising look, whistling calmly, damn near  _ merrily _ , despite the situation. It does the trick- the guard takes a shaky step forward and bellows out again, albeit more nervous than before, “you, the Outlaw McCree, are under arrest for multiple acts of thievery and-” 

_ 3, 2, 1-  _

A deafening  _ boom _ sounds from the street behind them, and both guards whip their heads around to inspect the source of the disaster. 

“An’ that’s my cue,” McCree calls out. He whips around and leaps at the wall, the pointed toes of his leather boots finding purchase in the holes of the cobblestone. He hears the rookie guard shout, apparently having noticed that it was just a distraction, and shakes his head with a chuckle. Smart kid, just a shame that he’s at the king’s beck and call like this. McCree uses his upper body strength to launch himself up to the top of the wall, twisting in mid-jump to straddle it. The guards have their helmets pointed towards him, obviously gawking behind the steel. Jesse gives them a wink, tipping the edge of his emerald-green hat down in farewell. 

“Nice meetin’ you fellas! We’ll catch up wit’ drinks sometime, okay? Until then,” he bellows out a laugh, swinging his leg over the wall and pushing himself off the edge, “ _ au revoir!”  _

The sound of the rookie guard’s frustrated scream is  _ music _ to his ears. 

Jesse breaks into a sprint the minute he’s on his feet on the other side of the alleyway. He slides around the corner, his cloak billowing behind him, and bolts in the direction of his contact’s house. There was always someone in every township that agreed to house the money that rightfully belonged to the people and divvy it up after he’d made his escape and the guards had stopped searching for him.  _ Aha _ ! There it was- the yellow circle with a dot in the center present on one of the supply barrels outside of the door. He makes a right through another alley, but, instead of throwing himself over the wall, he climbs the cobblestone of the house to his left. 

“Alley-oop,” McCree whispers, pushing the wooden doors of the window open and launching himself through them. He springs to his feet, dusting off his beige cotton pants as he listens to the contact climbing the steps to the top floor. Jesse grins at the sight of the old woman, with pristine white hair braided hanging off her shoulder, and a blue scarf tied around her head. She’s a vision, a pillar of authority with her back straight, and McCree takes his hat off in respect, careful not to dislodge the robin’s feather tucked into the leather band wrapped around it. 

“Hello, Jesse,” Ana says, stepping forward and gripping his gloved hand in both of her more frail ones. McCree can’t suppress the surge of familial affection that surges through him, and bends down to press a kiss to her weathered, dark skin. She chuckles happily, turning her palm and rubbing her thumb along the scruff on Jesse’s cheek. This woman was the closest thing to a mother he had, especially after his own had passed away during labor. Ana had watched out for him and his father all his life, as best she could as captain of the royal guard, until sickness found his father, and he passed away when he was barely an adult. Ana had resigned her position and taken up life as a civilian after that, helping Jesse through his grief-stricken years until he’d found the strength to revolt against a king that taxed his people so heavily they couldn’t afford medicine for their ill. Jesse grimaces at the memory, and shakes his head as he straightens up and goes to unclip the burlap sack on his belt. 

“Can’t stay long, Ana- Guards have been gettin’ mighty anxious ever since my last heist. Bastard king musta caught wind of what’s been goin’ on,” he passes the heavy sack to her, grinning as he situates his cap back on his head. That clever look in her eyes glints, though she says nothing, only nodding towards a similar burlap sack sitting next to the open window. Jesse sighs in happiness, jogging over to the bag and clipping it to his belt to replace the one he’d passed off to Ana. She chuckles fondly, and McCree twists to shoot his favorite woman a smile. “I’ll visit soon, I promise!” 

Ana just shakes her head, hiding a smile behind her thin fingers, “you and I both know that’s not true, Jesse.” 

The thief throws his head back and guffaws, legs already hanging outside of the window. “It’s the thought that counts, ma’am,” he calls giddily over his shoulder, before pushing off the sill. The ground rushes up to meet him.

Jesse rolls to prevent any damage to his ankles- didn’t need Zen or Luc telling him to be more careful- and breaks into another sprint. He makes sure to head away from Ana’s house, towards the township exit and to the forest of Barnsdale, and beyond that, to Sherwood Forest, to familiar trees and greenery. A familiar cackle rings out from behind him, followed by the distant  _ clack clack _ of armored guards. Junkrat sure didn’t know how to be quiet- and Lil’ Pig was kind of difficult to miss. They must’ve had quite the time getting away from Junkrat’s latest pyrotechnic display if guards were chasing them- either that, or McCree’s suspicions were correct and King Shimada had found out what was going on. Took him long enough- Jesse’d performed his first heist a few fortnights ago. 

He hears thunderous steps approach him and twists to look over his shoulder, catching sight of his pig-masked companion and the malnourished, gangly length thrown over his shoulder, chasing after him. Jesse can’t help but laugh at the sight- he can only imagine what Junkrat is doing at the throng of guards chasing after them, and he can see Mako’s tired eyes through the holes of his mask. Wasn’t according to plan, but hey, Jesse McCree was nothing if not one for improvisation.

Lil’ Pig catches up to him, grunting and huffing from the exertion of running but doing alright enough to give Jesse a thumbs up. Junkrat shoots him a wild-eyed smile, before turning and doing Gods know what at the guards. The three of them were quickly approaching the drawbridge that crossed the river leading out of town. He catches sight of a guard scrambling up the ladder to where the control winch is at the top of one of the tower’s flanking the bridge, like he was going to raise the bridge before they could cross it. Jesse runs through his options in his head, flicking his gaze over to the gears that control the drawbridge, the throng of guards rushing after them, Junkrat’s cackling voice beside him- everything clicks into place suddenly, a wide grin splitting McCree’s face.

If Jesse can do anything, it’s think on his toes.

“Hey, Ratboy- you got any of those explosives left?” McCree asks Junkrat, winded but eager for a little action. His left hand twitches with the need to feel his familiar crossbow’s heft in it, the feel of the weapon everpresent at his side. Jesse’s not had a chance to use it this entire heist- left a man feeling just a bit unsatisfied, y’know? 

Junkrat’s cackle is more than enough of an answer, but he responds in that grating, heavily accented voice of his, “who would I be if I wuzzn’t ready to get a lil’ explod-ey, Outlaw?”

Junkrat, even crazy as he could possibly be, was a pretty damn smart man- he knows what to do without Jesse telling him. McCree grins in lieu of a voiced response, grabbing for his crossbow, already loaded, at his side. He points it towards one of the gears that controls the drawbridge, and waits for the bridge guard to grab hold of the winch controls. Jesse sucks in a bracing gulp of air, finger finding its home on the trigger, and a familiar dull pain throbbing behind his left eye.

It’s like time slows to a halt, the entire scenery painted in blood-red and grey. Ignoring the ache behind his temple, McCree breathes out in a long, slow breath, index finger pulling back the trigger of his crossbow and sending the bolt flying through the air. It wobbles in the wind, just a bit, but finds its home in the steel gears. 

_ Perfect _ .

Time rushes up to meet them, and they race across the creaking bridge to the other side of  river. Jesse doesn’t even have to ask- Junkrat is already lighting the handheld explosive he’s holding and tossing it to the center of the bridge they just crossed. Jesse slows to a halt at a safe enough distance, turning to face the town he and his compatriots had just run from, and waves at the throng of guards all grinding to a halt outside of the bridge. One of them points at the bomb, the wick of which is getting dangerously short. Jesse snorts at the sight of them tripping over themselves to get away, hands finding their place on his hips. Lil’ Pig beside him, with Junkrat still on his shoulder- the trio all watch the explosive in anticipation.

Junkrat laughs maniacally beside him as the bomb explodes. 

Once the dust clears, the only thing left of the drawbridge is huge wood splinters and broken steel. A heist well done, if he does say so himself- ah, but what kind of thief would he be if he didn’t get the last laugh? Jesse steps up to the edge of the river, cupping his hands to his face and calling out to the guards across the broken bridge. 

“Send my regards to the king! Tell ‘em,” Jesse laughs, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, “that the Outlaw McCree ain’t standin’ for his injustice no more!” He watches the guards, all scrambling to stand, and turns on his heel to walk towards the familiar woods behind him. The trees accept him with open arms- McCree smiles to himself the burlap sack at his side feeling just as heavy as the one he’d given Ana, but with the distinct lack of coins clicking sounding from it.

A giddy feeling rises in his midsection, knowing that the money he’d emptied the treasury’s coffers of was going back to those that rightfully earned it.  _ A heist well done _ , indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning, father,” Hanzo says carefully, rising from his bow, “ I heard from Captain Amari that you wished to speak with me before breaking our fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST CHAPTER this is very Hanzo-centric. Also PLEASE keep in mind- Hanzo is very dependent on positive praise from his father, and this is in no way a healthy father-son relationship. I will make sure to add a tag to the work as well, but please be aware!!

Hanzo wakes to a knock on the oak doors separating his room from the rest of the castle. The lack of light filtering in from the massive windows scattered about his quarters tells him it’s not even dawn yet, and the distant chirping of crickets confirms that fact. Groaning, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, attempting to blink sleep out of his eyes to no avail.  _ Gods _ , he hated the mornings- especially being awakened without him asking to be. Most mornings, no one bothered him until it was time for the routine morning meal- a fact that Hanzo more than enjoyed. He appreciated his beauty sleep, the silk covers on his bed, the birds singing outside his windows as the early morning sun lit up the otherwise dark room. There were no birds, no sun, and his silk covers were only  _ begging _ him to curl up underneath them again and find slumber. Hanzo covers his lips to stifle a yawn, hoping whoever it was would just  _ leave _ . 

A second knock at his door, more insistent than before, told him that that was  _ definitely _ not happening. 

Who could  _ possibly _ be calling for him this early in the morning? Hanzo resists the urge to flop back into his bed with a groan and succumb to his body’s insistence that he needs more sleep. Instead, he swings his legs off the side of the bed to press against the plush carpeting under his bed, and stands. “Come in,” he calls out before the person accosting him this early in the morning could knock once more. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, the thin cotton sleepshirt he was wearing suited for bed but not for milling about. The cold bites at Hanzo’s skin, even more so as the double doors are pushed open, bringing with them a rush of chilly air. He tightens his grip on himself, hoping that he wasn’t trembling from the unforgiving late autumn air.

A familiar dark-haired woman stands outside of the doors, arms crossed behind her back. Dressed in dark cotton in lieu of her normal armor, she seems almost like a normal civilian.  _ Almost _ . Hanzo knows far better than to think of her as such. Her head is tilted up, impassive, and the brand under her right eye makes her seem all the more menacing. Hanzo doesn’t bat an eye, whereas weaker men may have flinched at the sight of her, in all her imposing glory. Fareeha “Pharah” Amari- captain of the royal guard, and, subsequently, one of his closest friends.

At the sight of her, he visibly sags in relief, and throws himself face-first back onto his bed. This was a person he could be vulnerable around, considering they’d known each other since they were basically infants. Former guard captain Ana Amari used to babysit him when his father was busy with royal duties (considering his mother had passed away in his youth), raising him like one of her own alongside her daughter. Fareeha is someone he absolutely regards as a close friend, someone he can be himself around without having to act with royal affectations- 

“Gods, Pharah, what are you  _ doing _ here?” Hanzo groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and scrubbing at sleep still clinging to his lashes. He listens to the brusque steps of his best friend against the stone floor, only for them to muffle when she breaches the edge of the carpeting under his bed. He twists his head to look at her, a single elegant brow arched at her impassive look. Pharah wasn’t usually this tense around him- he supposes that something must have happened the day prior for her to be disturbing him this early. 

“Good morning, Prince Shimada-” 

Hanzo snorts, rolling onto his back and cutting her off with a wave of his hand towards the open windows, “it is not morning until the sun rises above the rolling hills, Pharah.” Her scowl is interrupted by the slightest twitch of her lips as she tries not to grin at his words. Han rolls his eyes at her behavior, chuckling low in his throat. She always was a hard-ass when it came to her job- Hanzo was much more lax around those he could trust, though did take to training and obeying his father much more than his younger sibling. If there was a gamut to rate one’s self on, with Genji being the most relaxed and carefree, and Pharah the epitome of hard work and dedication, he was more akin to Pharah than his own brother. The royal guard captain straightens up, clearing her throat to get Hanzo’s attention once more, which he gives her with a head turned her way.

“Your father is requesting your presence in the throne room before you break your fast, Prince Shimada.” 

His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline at that. Hanzo’s father- Sojiro Shimada- did not normally demand to see him. For the most part, he was so busy with handling the kingdom that Hanzo normally did not see him- sometimes, he’d catch sight of his father observing him while he trained with the knights of the royal guard, or while he practiced archery, but they did not interact with one another. Occasionally, they’d partake in a shared dinner; himself, his younger brother Genji, and his father, but it had been weeks since they’d last done that. This sudden request for a meeting had Hanzo’s insides twisting up as he ran through a list of possible reasons why. Had he slipped up during training? Neglected to study hard enough? Perhaps upset a dignitary of some sort? Hanzo swallows down any panic that threatens to claw its way out of his throat. Regardless of a cause, his father wanted to see him- and he was not one to deny his father of anything. He sits up on the edge of his bed, determination steeling his nerves, and turns to give Pharah a brief nod. She returns the gesture, along with a slight smile ( _ ah _ , that is much more like the Pharah he knows), before she turns about-face and walks out of the room, making sure to shut the doors behind her. 

Hanzo pushes himself from his bed, rather than laying back down like he had wanted to earlier. Sleep would elude him now, anyways- and he didn’t want to keep his father waiting. He pads across the floor to the dresser that holds his clothes, throwing it open to reveal the interior filled with silks and filigree patterns, the finest clothes from the region and elsewhere, beyond their kingdom. Hanzo fishes out a long-sleeved tunic of a soft, navy-colored material, decorated with winding silver lacework along the hem and the collar, along with a pair of thick, black cotton pants and a cloak that matched the color of his tunic, lined the color of stars that shone in the sky. He changes quickly, mind lingering on his friend as he ties the laces of his tunic up in the front, and grabs black leather braces from a drawer to slide onto his arms. 

Pharah must have had to report some sort of bad news to his father, considering her behavior when she’d come in. Sojiro was a man who did not like being told of things unfortunate happening in his kingdom- and if the royal guard was partly to blame, or any of the guard factions in the surrounding townships, then Pharah would have been on the receiving end of his father’s scathing remarks. A pang of sympathy resonates in his chest at the thought of his closest friend standing in front of his father, reluctantly reporting some less-than-savory details on something his father must’ve been looking for a more positive outcome on, and shakes his head. It likely wasn’t even Pharah’s fault- but she took the brunt of it, being the captain of the royal guard as she was. He appreciates that about her- if his friend was anything, it was dedicated to her work and the kingdom.

Hanzo finishes tying his knee-high riding boots up and steps towards the full-length mirror set into a polished oak vanity he had had brought into his room many years ago. He cinches a belt around his waist and grabs a silver ribbon to tie his shoulder-length hair up with, finishing touches on his appearance before he goes to meet with his father. His reflection stares back at him; umber eyes and elegant brows, his regal nose set above the Cupid’s bow curve of his lips, the patch of hair just underneath his bottom lip. Not full enough to be a goatee, but the beginnings of a thicker beard, like the one his father had. He was only in his early twenties, so it succeeded in making him look just a bit older, more  _ distinguished _ , which was exactly what he wanted.

He straightens out his tunic and clips his cloak on, the velvet hanging heavy around his shoulders, soft and more than welcome against his exposed neck. Giving himself one last appraising look, Hanzo turns on his heel and strides towards the doors of his room, ignoring the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that whispers possible transgressions his father would address him on when he arrived at the throne room. Instead, he glances towards the windows. The sun has started to peek out from behind the horizon in the time it took him to get dressed- not late enough for the morning meal but early enough that the servants were likely preparing it. Hanzo hopes that his meeting with his father will not inconvenience the king; Sojiro Shimada was a busy man, and whatever it was that he needed to speak with Hanzo about must be taking time out of his packed schedule. (Of all things, he hopes he has not done something wrong; he has been training almost every  _ second  _ of his free time, at either archery or swordsmanship, or being educated on the finer points of diplomacy. Not that his father shows any signs of slowing down so far. However, one could not be too prepared for potential death, what with the plague ravishing nearby kingdoms. Regardless, Hanzo was hoping this would be a simple and stress-free meeting.)

Hanzo pulls open the heavy oak doors to reveal the winding staircase that leads up to his room. The torches on the wall are still lit, flickering firelight accenting the shadows dancing along the cobblestone walls. The servants must not have deemed it light enough outside to put them out yet, and the prince agreed with them, dawn slowly rolling in. Hanzo takes the steps briskly, measured, towards the first floor of the castle, where the throne room was. Servants pass by him, though he ignores their glancing at him, like they were mildly surprised he was up and milling about so early.  _ That  _ reaction was nothing compared to what they would do if they saw Genji up and about- his younger brother was not a man that left his quarters before midday. He normally broke his fast in bed, and was only seen fleetingly around the castle before he ventured into town to seduce any and everyone that caught his eye. 

He doesn’t let it show, but he is jealous of his brother’s freedom- if he even  _ thought _ about leaving the castle grounds for anything other than meeting with other kingdom’s representatives… Well, suffice to say, he does not want to think about the potential disappointment in his father’s eyes, nor the subsequent punishment that would follow. (He would deny the shudder that ran up his spine at the very notion of it to the end of his days.)

Genji had it easy- he was their father’s favorite, after all.

Hanzo strides down the halls, back straight and head up, ignoring the servants rushing by him to get things ready for the mornings. He passes by cloth banners hung up on the walls, displaying the proud symbol of their kingdom- two mythical beasts devouring each other’s tails in a circle to signify the cycle of power, death, and being reborn. Every member of the Shimada royal family were branded with one of those mythical beasts- a fearsome dragon- on some part of their body in a process using colored ink and a needle. His father’s is on his back, with wings spread wide, pointed skyward, and maw threatening to swallow his head whole, starting from the neck. His late mother’s had been on her chest, lying in wait between the curve of her breasts- this was something his father had told him, as he had been too young to remember his mother before she’d passed away after she’d given birth to his younger brother. Genji’s is on his right leg, more serpentine in nature, and starts with a tail curled around his hip, down around his thigh and calf, and ends with mouth agape at his ankle. His own starts at his left pectoral, winds up to his shoulder and down his arm, through clouds and lightning branded into his skin, to end with sharp teeth prepared to devour his hand.

Rubbing at his shoulder, Hanzo shakes off the memories of suffering under hundreds of thousands of needle pricks, all for the sake of preserving a long-standing family tradition- one that the outside world was not privy to. It was for the better- anyone could claim to be a Shimada if they knew and had the gold to spare on branding themselves in such a way. Hanzo frowns, thinking of the pain that Pharah must have gone through while getting her own brand beneath her eye, opposite but matching the design that her mother had. 

Hanzo nods at the guards standing outside of the throne room, watching them rush to grab the steel handles of the doors as he approaches. The gust of wind that comes with the doors being opened rustles his hair and blows his cloak back- he pays it no mind as he takes brusque steps across the threshold and into the throne room. His father sits in the regal chair at the end of the carpeted walkway, clothed in silks of purple and gold, with fingers covered in jeweled rings. Sojiro stands as Hanzo approaches, taking the steps down from the throne and towards him. The crown atop his head glints in the early morning sunlight streaming in from one of the many windows on either side of them. They meet in the middle, Hanzo having to tilt his head a bit to look at his father’s more statuesque figure.

He comes to a stop in front of him, staring at him over the curve of his prominent nose. Hanzo bows just slightly at the waist, one arm crossed behind his back, ignoring the anxious twisting of his midsection that occurred whenever he was around Sojiro. It was nothing to be concerned over- just a normal reaction to his father, who was a strict and intimidating figure in his life. 

“Good morning, father,” Hanzo says carefully, rising from his bow, “ I heard from Captain Amari that you wished to speak with me before breaking our fast.” He meets his father’s eyes and matches his impassive look, not letting the anxiety that is welling up inside of him show on his face. Sojiro nods but does not answer vocally (and, Gods, Hanzo fears more and more that he has does something horribly wrong), instead turning towards a massive table upon which is a map of their kingdom that he has seen his father and their adviser poring over many a time. Hanzo follows his father without prompting as the man leads him to the table. He  _ still  _ has not said a word. Hanzo is  _ still _ anxious, unsurprisingly.

Sojiro braces his hands against the edge of the large table, his eyes sliding over to Hanzo to make sure he’s paying attention- not that his gaze has been anywhere else except on his father since he’d walked through the door. Apparently pleased, he nods his head towards the map, which Hanzo focuses on intensely- Sojiro reaches his hand forward and presses one ringed finger to a township towards the edge of the kingdom, marked with a circle in red ink. There are two more, both at the edge of the kingdom, marked in kind. Hanzo’s brows furrow at the sight-  _ what does it mean? _

“Hanzo,” Sojiro starts, in that commanding and powerful voice of his (Hanzo’s back straightens, anxious energy thrumming through his veins), “have you heard what has been happening in the outer townships of late?” He says it like Hanzo should already know- panic, ice cold panic, seeps into his veins at the knowledge that he does not, in fact, know what has been affecting their kingdom in those towns. 

Resolutely, he shakes his head, and tries not to outwardly show how his stomach twists uncomfortably when his father sighs out through his nose in a long, slow breath. Sojiro drags his finger down from that township to another circled in red, speaking to Hanzo all the while, “there has been a troupe of thieves causing mischief in these towns. I was certain that the guards would have been able to catch at least one of them by now. However,” Sojiro pauses and straightens up, hand abandoning the map as he turns to face Hanzo fully, irritation in the set of his jaw and the curl of his mouth, “this band of miscreants have not been apprehended yet. And they must, for they have been taking from  _ us _ .” 

Hanzo’s brows furrow at that- taking from them? But… how? He crosses his arms behind his ramrod straight back, and voices his confusion, “father, may I ask in what way are they stealing from us? If these thugs are stealing from us, would they not attack the castle, rather than townships these far away?” 

Sojiro huffs out a biting laugh, devoid of even the slightest tinge of mirth, and turns his head to level Hanzo with a glare. He shrinks back internally, but holds his ground as best he can- showing his fear would likely only upset and disappoint his father, which he is not wont to do. “I suppose I understand why you would assume that,” he takes a deep, supposedly grounding breath in through his nose (and Hanzo will not admit to the spike of dread driven through his midsection at the knowledge that he’s disappointing his father) and continues on, “Hanzo, you are aware that every town has a treasury in which the taxes we collect from the people are held before being collected by our very own royal guard captain, correct?”

Hanzo nods. Yes, the taxes that his father collects for trading purposes with other kingdoms and for infrastructure were collected once a fortnight from all of the townships in their kingdom, and Pharah was the one that brought each town’s taxes back to the secure castle treasury…  He inhales sharply, realizing what exactly his father meant when he said that they were ‘stealing from us’.  _ Those bastards _ . They could affect the kingdom’s trade partnerships, the wages given to the guards employed by the castle, and, eventually, the entire kingdom with their greed.

“They are emptying out the township treasuries,” Hanzo says in answer to his father’s bored, yet expectant, look his way, “which is endangering the kingdom.” His lips curl into a disgusted sneer, thinking of how these few people were likely living life large, sitting on piles of the people’s money, and shakes his head.  _ Greedy, awful people. Thinking only of themselves and not of the greater good- of the kingdom _ . “Absolutely awful, father. And, you are saying the guards have not been able to apprehend  _ any _ of them yet?” 

Sojiro seems pleased- enough so that his lips quirk into the smallest smile (Hanzo feels relief flood his midsection- he has not done anything wrong, or his father would be treating him  _ much _ differently). He turns to the map again, pressing a finger against one of the other townships near the edge of the kingdom, this one not circled in red, “the guards believe that they will strike here next- the man that leads the troupe and his lackeys. However, they have not been able to capture a single one of them the any of the times he’s struck. I believe them  _ incompetent _ ,” he spits the word out like venom, and Hanzo flinches despite himself, “as they cannot handle this task. But…” Sojiro turns his head to look at Hanzo once more, eyes narrowed, with a sickening saccharine smile on his face. Hanzo stands up straighter, feeling like he was on the receiving end of a panther’s calculating eyes, and meets his father’s gaze as best he can. 

“I know you can manage to stop them, Hanzo.” 

_ What? _

Hanzo blinks. He stares at his father, waiting for a punchline of some type, a joke to be told, a sign that his father was kidding- but it never comes. Sojiro just looks at him expectantly, waiting for a response.  _ Stop them, how can he stop them- _ sure, he’s excellent with a bow and can more than manage himself with a sword, but what could he possibly do that the guards hadn’t already- oh, his father is still staring at him, but now with an irritated set to his jaw and a twitch of his eyebrow. Respond, respond,  _ respond-  _ Hanzo manages, pushing words out of his mouth despite how confused he was, “you believe that I can stop them, in a way that the guards cannot? Forgive me, father, but I am concerned as to how you think that I can do that-” 

“You are a skilled warrior, Hanzo, in both ranged and close-combat,” Sojiro cuts him off, before any self-deprecation can fall from his lips, “and you have something that these mere guards do not. You are smart, Hanzo, absolutely brilliant, and,” Sojiro smiles at him, an actual smile (one that Hanzo has not seen in quite some time, that makes feeling  _ appreciated _ well up within him), and places his jeweled hands on Hanzo’s shoulders, “you are a Shimada. If anyone can think of a way to outsmart those criminals, it is you.” 

Hanzo feels a burst of joy in his chest, knowing his father thought him more than qualified to handle a group of tactless ruffians. Lips parting in the smallest smile, he nods his assent to his father’s statement. Sojiro squeezes his shoulders before letting his hands drop, along with his smile, all seriousness once again. Hanzo ignores the pang of disappointment in his gut, and turns to face the map along with his father. 

“These seem to not be common criminals. Guards have been reporting explosions from bombs dropped by a malnourished man, accompanied by a large beast wearing a pig-skin mask, and a rogue with a green cloak around his shoulders and a crossbow at his side. He,” Sojiro pauses to snarl angrily, obviously furious, “seems to be the leader of the troupe. I found that he is calling himself ‘the Outlaw McCree’.” 

Hanzo snorts at that, trying to imagine this trio escaping some of their best guards to no avail, “how boorish. Already labeling himself as a criminal, like it’s something to be proud of.” 

“Truly. Regardless of how brutish they are, none of the guards have been able to apprehend him, or his compatriots. They must be smarter than they are leading on,” Sojiro turns his head to face Hanzo, a single elegant brow raised in question, “do you have a plan to apprehend them? If the guards cannot best them with brute force alone, what can you do that will bring them to their knees?” 

Hanzo stops at that. What  _ can _ he do? His father was right- he was smarter than the guards, he could  _ absolutely _ do this. The only question was how. Think, Hanzo, think. How could he outsmart a group of, apparently, uncommon rogues? Hanzo purses his lips, a single brow raised as he mulls over what he could do. Come on… Think like a thief would… think like a thief would-

_ Like a thief would. _

_ Ah. _

“Father,” Hanzo starts, hesitant, and Sojiro turns to face him from where he was surveying the map, “what if I infiltrated their ranks?” It’s a tentative plan, a dangerous one, but something that Hanzo is certain such uncommon thieves would not see coming. When his father does not answer him immediately, he forges on, “I would be able to dismantle them from the inside-out. Find out where their base is, befriend them, lull them into a sense of false security… I will disguise myself and join their troupe to destroy them from within their own ranks.” 

Sojiro still has not said anything.  _ Gods _ . Of course he wasn’t responding- Hanzo realizes that such a plan sounds absolutely ridiculous. He would have to come up with something else, something less  _ idiotic _ . Hanzo turns his head up to face his father fully, lips parting as he prepares to apologize for suggesting such a thing, when he sees his father’s proud smile and gleaming eyes pointed his way. The words die in his throat before he can even begin to speak. 

“Hanzo. Yes, that is  _ exactly _ what I meant,” Sojiro barks out a laugh, reaching one hand forward to place on his shoulder, a warm and welcome fatherly presence that Hanzo beams at, “that is what I expected of my son. You will make a fine king some day, Hanzo.” 

Hanzo straightens up a bit at that, a smile gracing his features as his father showers him with praise that he normally does not get. It’s more than appreciated- usually Genji was the one that was praised, even for the smallest things. It does not upset him- Hanzo knows that the reason why his brother is showered with compliments is  _ because _ his father dotes on him, since Genji is not the next in line for the crown, has less responsibilities than Hanzo does, is the youngest. It is quite alright- he does not need the validation as much as Genji does. Besides, he  _ earns _ his praise. 

“I will venture into the nearest township and procure a mask of some sort to hide my appearance,” Hanzo says, lapsing back into a discussion of his plan, and watching his father’s face for approval, “and then don commoner’s clothing and make my way to the township that you said they shall strike next. I will earn their trust, find where their hideout is, and report back with my findings, so that we may corner them.” 

Sojiro nods in understanding and agreement, not a single protest to his plan thus far, “I have no qualms about this. You are more than capable, and I have no doubt that you will be able to handle this in no more than a fortnight, Hanzo.” His father turns to the map once more and reaches towards the township that ‘the Outlaw McCree’ and his troupe of thieves will be supposedly targeting next. “Once you have prepared yourself and procured your supplies, venture to the township of Nottinghamshire. It is near the river separating our kingdom and the Forest of Barnsdale- and beyond that, Sherwood forest. It should take no more than a day to get there from here.” 

Hanzo nods, already committing the names to memory- he has not been too far from the castle, in all his twenty-two years. Only a half-day’s trip from the gates at most, and, normally, only to the township just outside of the castle grounds. He hasn’t had much need nor desire to venture beyond that. The prospect of being so far from his home both excites and terrifies him- Hanzo knows that it will not be for long, though. How difficult would it be to apprehend a group of greedy thieves? 

“I shall provide you with a few shillings for an inn and food during your journey- any more than that would be suspicious. I trust you can procure your own disguise?” His father is walking away from him, towards the throne, and calling his words over his shoulder. Hanzo nods, already mapping out his route for the day, as he begins to head to the doors. Firstly, town to see the tailor and leatherworker that usually clothed their family. Torbjorn should have a mask he can use, or he could make one for him, along with clothes that he could borrow for the time being. Next, to the armory to grab his longbow, along with a stop by the kitchen for food on his journey. Then- He halts both his thought process and his feet when he hears his father clear his throat for his attention, turning to see Sojiro inspecting his nails with a bored expression on his face. 

“And, Hanzo? Bring them back alive- I want to make an  _ example  _ of this band of thieves. Publicly.” 

Hanzo’s lips curl into a wicked smile. 

“Of course, Father.” 

With that, he turns, and leaves the throne room behind, unaware of his father’s mad grin spreading across his features. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

The cotton brushing against Hanzo’s skin is a stark contrast to the silks and velvets he usually wore- this was much more coarse and slightly irritating, like sand. But it would make do- he would be back in a fortnight, at the most, or perhaps earlier. 

Hopefully earlier.

He twists and turns to inspect himself in the mirror, knowing he will likely not have access to one when he leaves. Torbjorn had provided him (or, rather, angrily thrown clothes at him as punishment for interrupting his work) with a cheap set of clothes he would wear for this mission alone and then promptly burn. The dark blue cotton of his shirt is free of adornments, a basic top that he has not ever worn before, with billowing sleeves. It’s odd to not see lace or filigrees on his clothing, but not too different than what he normally wears whilst training. He’s exchanged his polished black leather belt and bracers for worn brown ones he borrowed from the knight’s training quarters. Torbjorn had tossed drawstring pants at him that are beige, thicker than the cotton shirt but still leagues different than his normal wardrobe. He’s tucked the top of them into the well-used, scuffed leather riding boots that he’d pilfered from Genji’s room, knowing his little brother wouldn’t miss them. Torbjorn had also thrown a black cloak at him- one that was  _ definitely _ not velvet, but would suffice. 

Hanzo reaches up to undo the silver ribbon keeping his hair up, letting the inky black locks fall in a waterfall around his shoulders. He combs his fingers through it, tossing the ribbon to the side and fishing through the others he has in hopes of finding one that didn’t belie his disguise. To no avail, it seems, as he digs through silks in every color and pattern imaginable. With a sigh, Hanzo resigns himself to using a gold ribbon with a scalloped pattern on it, allowing himself this one pleasure while he was away from the castle and his wardrobe. If asked about it, he would lie and say he stole it. Perhaps it would get him in good standing with such a troupe of thieves, he thinks to himself with a wry smile. He quickly ties up his hair to get it out of the way, though he leaves a chunk of his fringe out of the ponytail. 

Lastly, there was the mask- Torbjorn had fashioned a simple one for him out of black leather and strong cord, not fully covering his face but enough to obscure his appearance to any that might have recognized him. He is sure that most outside of the castle staff, the guards, and the township right outside of the castle grounds do not know what he looks like, but it is simply a precaution. Hanzo doesn’t want to think about what would happen if anyone other than his father found out about his involvement with the miscreants- the outrage, the public outcry, seeing the king’s son become a lowly thief. Not even explaining what their plan was would save their reputation. Hanzo shakes off the icy dread surging through his veins, unwilling to let potential downfall affect him- he steels his nerves, shooting a determined look at his reflection. He would not fail. 

Hanzo ties the mask on, the soft leather more than welcome against his face, and throws the cloak on. Grabbing his favorite longbow, quiver, and bag of supplies, he gives himself one last look-over in the mirror. He barely even recognizes himself, dressed in pauper’s clothes and with a mask on, leaving only the bottom half of his face visible.  _ Perfect _ . It was better if no one could recognize him anyways, and if even seeing  _ himself  _ threw him for a loop, then surely it would fool others.  

Hanzo turns and strides out of the room, down the spiral staircase, determination in the set of his jaw and the furrow between his brows. The night is cold, biting at his skin even through his clothes. Chirping crickets herald his steady escape through the castle, as he ducks through the shadows dancing on the walls because of the flickering firelight. He sneaks past where he knows guards are, by the servants quarters, and out into the cold of the late evening air. 

The moon sits high in the sky, watching him as he sneaks across the castle garden to the tall walls surrounding the palace. Hanzo sticks close to it, letting it lead him towards the main exit. He peeks around the corner to watch the exit with bated breath, searching for an opening where he could make his escape. It takes a few minutes, but the guards eventually start to head towards the nearby barracks, two more leaving the building to replace them. He ducks out and into the canopy of trees just outside of the castle grounds, shielding himself from any prying eyes. Hanzo keeps the hood of his cloak on, and, once he’s far enough from the castle to not garner any suspicion, leaves the shroud of trees to walk the main road into town. 

His father was trusting him to complete this task, thought of him as capable and competent, and Hanzo would  _ not  _ fail. The weight of his family’s reputation is on his shoulders, as well as his father’s trust in him. His quiver and bow slung across his back, and the bag of supplies at his side, Hanzo begins his journey to the township of Nottinghamshire. ‘The Outlaw McCree’ would regret the day that he ever thought he could cross the Shimada family, the very kingdom of York, and get away with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end of chapter 1!! Please, lemme know what you think, and let me know where you think this is going ;) ! Catch me on tumblr or twitter too!! Both are cawaiiey >:3c


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing, McCree's Band of Merry Men, his informant Sombra, the heist in Nottinghamshire, and a cliffhanger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HELLO thank you for your patience !!!! This was a real fun chapter- please enjoy!! Next chapter should be out faster cuz it'll be a shorter one !!! <3 This one's McCree's POV !!

“Hana, we should come up with a theme song.” 

Lucio’s excited voice is the first thing Jesse hears as he, Junkrat, and Lil’ Pig approach their base of operations- deep in Sherwood forest, shrouded by a wealth of thick trees and overgrowth, is a large abandoned building, with a massive hollowed out tree grown through the right side of it. It was already cleared out when Jesse found it a few months ago, and it only took a few personal touches (and some furniture moved over from his childhood home) to really spruce the place up. It wasn’t a single room either- actually had two stories- plus quite a few areas to set up bedding. And, of course, there was the giant tree- he didn’t really go in there though, as that was both Bastion’s and Meka’s territory. While he loved Bastion and… tolerated Meka, the tree itself wasn’t the best place to sleep, not when the building portion of their hideout was more well-insulated and less crawling with various insects and woodland creatures. Other than that, their hideout had more than enough space for himself and his band of merry men, as he’s begun so lovingly calling their troupe. 

“Lucio. That sounds like the dumbest, yet best idea you’ve ever had.” 

Jesse grins- and that’s Hana, their resident diva. He can make out Lucio’s faux scoff of disdain through one of the broken windows- some things couldn’t be spruced up so easily, glass was expensive and they didn’t have the funds for new panes- as he reaches for the door. Lil’ Pig goes about setting Junkrat down, if the grating, “cheers, mate,” behind him is any indication.

“We’re home,” McCree sing-songs as he enters their hideout. He throws the door open, and the youngest members of his troupe both whip their heads up to look at him wearing matching faces of joy. The entryway leads straight into their living room/dining area. The scones on the walls are already lit, casting warm light around the room, in conjunction with the dim late evening sun filtering in through the windows. McCree takes a deep inhale of the forest air, the scent of burning firewood- of  _ home _ \- and grins as the two in the room scramble to their feet.

“McCree!”

Hana is the first one to shout his name, bounding up from where she was lounging against her pet bear- who she affectionately named Meka-’s side. The creature raises her head to look at Jesse (and he straightens up, puffs his chest out, tries to look intimidating, because that bear can be one _mean_ _son of a bitch_ when she wants to be) but snuffs and rolls back over, finding him disinteresting… for the time being. McCree diverts his attention from the bear to her owner, as Hana skips towards him, a smile on her face. She’s one of the most precious people to him- like a younger sister, or a niece, and she looks so happy to see him, home safe and--

“Please tell me you brought food because I am  _ starving _ , McCree.”

Jesse splutters, even as he goes to unclip the bag Ana had given him from his belt, shaking his head all the while. Of course- girl was fifteen and had a mighty appetite, befitting of a… bear, now that he thought about it. Now that was a laugh that he’d have later, when Hana wasn’t staring at him with expectant, hungry eyes. “Y’only wanted me home safe for the food, didn’t’cha,” McCree gripes, handing the heavy burlap sack over to Hana, who snatches it out of his grip just as Lucio finally meanders over from where he’d been tuning the strings on his lute. Jesse perks up at the sound of his approach. If there was anybody in their band of thieves that would appreciate him and his well-being, it would be--

“Oooh, the contact packed bread and cheese this time? Gods yes, can’t wait to make one hell of a sandwich.” 

McCree clutches a gloved hand over his heart in mock hurt, tilting his hat down as he stumbles backwards, right into Lil’ Pig’s plush stomach. He grunts, definitely not hurt but absolutely disinterested in Jesse’s act. Mako’s massive hand clamps down on his shoulder, saving him from falling to the floor in a graceless heap- although he definitely would have done so, just for the  _ dramatics _ . “Oh, they wound me- don’t give a damn about my well-being, jus’ whether or not I can line their stomachs,” Jesse bemoans, letting Mako manhandle him out of the doorway so he and Jamie could enter the house, “my cruel, cruel family.” He throws himself against the wall, groaning in faux agony as he slides to the floor- not that anyone was paying attention to him, he realizes with a peek of one eye from below the brim of his cap. Lucio and Hana were clearing off a space on a table that Jamie and Jesse had fashioned out of a few stumps and a large log cut in half lengthwise way back when, while Mako and their friendly maniac went to find some pilfered cutlery they kept in the kitchen area. Jesse could already guess where Bastion was- the sounds of birds chittering away filtering in through the hole they’d cut into the tree grown through the side of their house a tell-tale sign as to where their resident golem was hiding- but there was still one member of his band of merry men missing. 

“Hey, where’s our pious friend at today?” McCree asks, pushing himself up off the floor- dropping his act, for now- and wandering over to where Hana and Lucio were. They barely glanced up at him at his approach, more focused on divvying up the food so everyone got their fair portion.

Hana jabs a thumb towards the door just as Lucio responds, “Zen went out to collect fruits, veggies, and some herbs. Said he’d be back just before dusk.” McCree glances outside, at the sun steadily sinking below the horizon, and cocks a brow in question. He wasn’t usually this late- in fact, he had a history for showing up just in the nick of time. Zenyatta, the chaplain of their group, had discovered them in Sherwood forest while he was on a pilgrimage of sorts. Jesse and Lil’ Pig were the only two members of their troupe at that point, having just broken a severely malnourished and feverish Junkrat out of prison. He can still remember that night- the two of them, bruised and bloody, with a shivering Jamie tossed over Mako’s shoulder, stumbling through the trees while wondering if the day ending would take Jamie’s life with it. Then, outta nowhere, appearing like an answer to their unspoken prayers, Zenyatta had wandered into the clearing they’d hunkered down in, surprise shining in the brilliant blue of his eyes to find people so deep in the woods. 

He’d saved Jamie’s life that day- had even gone so far as to treat Jesse’s and Mako’s wounds as well- and, after listening to their story, had promised to stay a part of their group. Zen had claimed it was to seek further spiritual enlightenment, but McCree had a feeling that there was a little more to it than that, if the way he’d jumped at the chance to put his pilgrimage on hold had been any indication. Not one to pry too much into the affairs of others, Jesse had let him join- never hurt to have someone with basic healing magic on their team, as well as extensive knowledge as to what would and would not kill them in terms of fruits and vegetables in the forest. 

As if thinking about him called him back, their pious partner in crime steps over the threshold, a wicker basket teeming with fresh forest goodies hooked underneath his arm. Jesse whips his head around at the sound of steps behind him, relaxing when he realizes it’s just Zenyatta, in all his bald and brilliant glory. He pauses at the sight of McCree, a gentle smile crossing his features. 

“Ah, I see you have returned safely. For this, I am glad,” Zenyatta says, tilting his head towards Jesse in greeting. The smile that crosses his features at that is damn near blinding- at least  _ someone _ voiced their appreciation of him on this damn team. 

“Thank ya kindly, Zenny,” McCree beams at him, eyes already locked onto the basket Zen was approaching the table with. He places it next to the bread that Lucio is in the middle of slicing, heads of lettuce and bunches of wildberries dotted with water droplets practically spilling out of the basket. McCree can’t help himself- the sight of those berries, plump and red and fresh, are too enticing- he snatches one and pops it into his mouth, savoring the burst of tart juices on his tongue. Zenyatta tuts at him, amused, while fishing all of the goods out of his basket and placing them on the table. Luc grabs a head of lettuce, having finished slicing up the bread and cheese already, and goes about cutting that up as well. Savoring the routine they’d fallen into, McCree quietly watches the domestic scene with a smile on his face. This is his  _ family _ , and he wouldn’t trade this for the world.

Hana looks up at him from where she’d inhaled her food, barely a crumb left, and speaks with her mouth full, “how’d the mission go, McCree?” Though it sounded more like, “hmdh hm mmion oo, mee?” Jesse’s been around Hana and her horrendous table manners for long enough to decipher what she’s saying, ignoring the sight of mashed bread and cheese threatening to spill out of her mouth in favor of unhooking his crossbow from his belt so he can inspect it and make sure using Deadeye hadn’t damaged her in any way. 

“Went off without a hitch,” he drags his fingers along the polished wood handle, finger’s lingering on the letters J.M. carved into the yew, “only had to use Deadeye once. Jamie got to blow up a bridge,” the man in question barks out a self-satisfied laugh, as if to affirm that yes, he  _ did  _ blow up a bridge, and he more than enjoyed it. McCree rolls his eyes, continuing, “for the most part, everything went according to plan.” Jesse pulls the bowstring back to hook it behind the latch, notching another bolt into the flight groove before he clips her back onto his belt. Wouldn’t do to break his lil’ Peacekeeper- she was his trusty companion through all of his do and dare. 

“That’s good- we’re glad you’re safe, Outlaw,”  _ finally, someone other than Zenyatta appreciates him _ \- Lucio pipes up, hiding his chewing behind one gloved hand, “have any clue who the next contact is? Where’s our next target?” 

McCree unclips his emerald cloak from his shoulders and folds it over his arm, shaking his head in response as he moves towards the steps leading to the top floor, “nah, Som said to go visit her once I came back from the heist. She’s gon’ hook us up with the info.” He starts to ascend the stairs, already planning out his route to Loxley, when Hana calls for him. She bounds over to the steps, climbing up the side to hook her arms over the banister.

“You’re leaving already?” She grouses, brows furrowed.  _ Aw _ , Hana’s so cute- he really  _ is  _ fond of her, she was like the younger sibling he never had. Jesse reaches out, fondly ruffling her long brown locks and ignoring her squawk of indignation. 

“‘Fraid so, Hana-bug. Justice ain’t gonna dispense itself,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Hana juts her lower lip out in a pout, like she can’t believe that he’s only back for a few minutes. He really had to find more time to spend with her… A grin forms on his features as he continues, “though I’m sure you and Meka could be of help during this next heist. If yer feelin’ up to it, that is.” Hana’s pout morphs into a wicked grin, eyes twinkling at the prospect of actually  _ doing  _ something, as opposed to sitting around all day or wandering the familiar woods. She launches herself off of the railing with a hoot, scrambling over to where her pet bear is lounging in the corner, excitement rolling off of her in waves. Jesse appreciates her enthusiasm- Hana hadn’t joined him on any heists so far, but he figured that this next one would be alright. All three of the ones he’s done haven’t had any issues, and Som’s information always made the plans they come up with easy to pull off. 

McCree climbs the stairs, pulling his cap off his head as he plans out his route to Loxley- it took a half day to get there and then a half day to come back, so they’d be able to perform the next heist in about two days. Som would provide the info on the next contact and the location of the treasury in the next township. He’d hunker down in her tavern for the rest of the night, then leave at dawn, with a pack full of food to bring home. Routine, routine- same as the last three times they’d pulled this off. Shouldn’t be any different than normal.

Jesse pushes open the door of his room, already pulling at the laces of his bracers with one hand. It only takes him a few minutes to change out of his outlaw getup and into his civilian clothes- a light brown linen shirt in lieu of the dark green one he wore usually, a thick crimson wool cloak embroidered with a gold pattern on the edges, and brown cotton pants instead of black ones, tucked into the same umber leather boots he always wore. The point of his outlaw outfit was to blend in with the shadows and the trees of the forest- made it real difficult to follow a swath of green through bushes and low hanging branches of the same color. His civilian one was the exact opposite- no one expected the infamous outlaw to wear such a garish outfit out in public, let alone walk about on the streets. He completes the look with a wide-brimmed leather hat on his head to hide his facial features from any prying eyes, giving himself a once-over in the broken mirror he’d set up in his room. Even with the spidery cracks crawling across his visage in the glass, his reflection looked alright enough to venture into town. Oh, but there was just one last thing… McCree raises a hand to smooth the hair of his thick sideburns down, running his thumb and forefinger along the soul patch right below his lower lip. One day, he’d grow out his facial hair into a full beard, but for now, he’d settle for looking on the right side of “handsomely rugged”.

With Peacekeeper hooked back onto his belt, he moseys out of his room and down the stairs. Zenyatta is brewing something up with herbs taken from the forest, and Lucio is strumming languidly at his lute. Hana and Meka are nowhere to be seen- he can imagine she’d taken the bear out to practice for the upcoming heist, which leaves Jamie and Mako, both of which are curled up together in the corner of the living room, dozing after the rough mission. He’s careful not to wake them, tiptoeing quietly past and towards the door. Jesse didn’t expect to be stopped, a hushed, “hey,” calling out to him as he reaches for the handle. 

McCree turns around, catching Lucio’s eye. The bard plays a few simple chords on his instrument, and the fatigue that had been pulling at McCree’s bones- that he was doing his best to ignore- vanishes in an instant. Music magic- it really did wonders. “Be safe out there, okay? We’ll be waiting for you when you get home,” Lucio whisper-yells at him, still plucking out chords. Jesse tips his hat in lieu of a worded response before he exits their home. He heads off in the direction of Loxley, listening to the sounds of insects chirping and birds singing lethargic songs in the late evening light. There’s a soft smile on his face as he hums along to the music of the forest.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It’s well into the evening by the time he makes it to Sombra’s tavern.

Jesse walks through the door of the familiar bar like he owns the place, ignoring the heads and eyes that swivel his way at the sound of his footsteps. He’s grateful for the warmth and shelter- the late autumn chill had been biting at his skin the whole trip, and he’s not one for the cold. McCree tips his hat and smiles in greeting to the scrutiny of the bar patrons, putting on the airs of a man without a care in the world. Everyone’s eyes leave him- for the time being- likely dubbing him as an airhead looking to indulge in his vices for the evening. All the better for McCree really. He’s always liked blending in with the crowd. 

Jesse strides past tables filled with patrons at varying levels of intoxication, sidling past barmaids with plunging necklines and tight bodices carrying serving trays here and there, over to the bar, behind which Som is polishing a tankard with a rag. He sits down on a stool to the left of her, raising a hand towards Sombra in greeting. She only flicks her eyes over to him, playing her role of unassuming barkeep just as well as he’s playing his. 

McCree fishes around in his side pocket for a box of cigars and a few shillings for a drink. He had to act like he was a regular bar patron- no telling how many off-duty guards were around. Sombra walks over to him just as he’s lighting the end of his smoke with a nearby candle, the plum-colored bodice she has on shining in the candlelight. She places a tankard full of sweet-smelling ale in front of him and collects the shillings he’s placed on the countertop, unnatural violet eyes boring into him even as a smirk spreads across her painted lilac lips. 

“Good evenin’ barkeep,” McCree says, taking a drag of spicy, heady smoke into his lungs and holding it for a moment before he breathes it out in a lazy swirl, “where’s this brew from?”

Som adjusts the black linen top she’s wearing as she goes to lean against the bar top, one long-nailed finger tapping against the side of the frosted steel tankard, “had it imported in from the east. My friend Aleksandra in Nottinghamshire recommended it to me- she lives towards the center of town, round the block from a damn good bakery, y’know. If you ever have the chance, you should stop by. Best time to go is dawn, when everything’s fresh-baked.” Sombra clicks her nails against the polished oak countertop, flicking her eyes past McCree as she straightens up, “let me know if you need anything else, or if you need your drink topped off.” 

Jesse nods, taking his hat off and placing it on the counter just as Som turns to leave, “you got it, barkeep. One more thing, though…” Sombra looks at him over her shoulder, two empty tankards in hand, and cocks one brow in question. “Have a room available for the night? ‘S mighty late- wouldn’t want to risk the wilderness on my way home.” His informant just nods, holding up two fingers- second room upstairs, Jesse knows- before she busies herself with attending to the other bar patrons. 

Som’s codes were easy to decipher when you’d known her for long enough. To anyone else, it sounded like a normal recommendation, but Jesse knew what she meant- next target was Nottinghamshire, treasury was located on the east side of town, his contact’s name was Aleksandra and she lived near a bakery. The recommended time to strike is dawn. Jesse commits those details to memory as he goes to take a hearty gulp of the ale Sombra had placed in front of him. It burns going down his throat, settling warm and heavy in his gut, and is equal parts sweet and bitter on his tongue. Say what you wanted about Som- she knew exactly what brews to stock in her bar. Jesse entertains his vices for the evening, smoking and drinking until the only thing left in his tankard was foam, before he excuses himself to go upstairs and turn in for the night.

Sleep comes to him, dreamless, and the morning is there before he knows it. 

Dawn light filters in through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing lazily in the air. McCree is already up and pulling his boots on- no rest for the wicked- when he hears a soft knock at his door. Only one person could be bothering him this early in the morning. He pushes himself up and off the straw bed and onto his feet, ignoring the sound of his knees popping in favor of going across the room to greet his visitor. 

“Mornin’ Som,” McCree whispers, opening the door to reveal the barkeep inspecting the long nails of one hand, the other clutching a large pack full of supplies- most likely, food, amongst other things. She thrusts the bag forward without looking up from her nails and McCree takes it without question. Som was all business, especially this early in the morning. He throws the pack over his shoulder and goes to step out of the room, but Sombra hasn’t moved from her spot, blocking him from leaving. Unnatural violet eyes flick from her nails over to Jesse’s face.

“Good morning, Jesse,” she responds, just as quietly, as if speaking too loudly would alert the guards not only to their presence but to their crimes, “already heading back?” 

McCree cocks a brow at that. She’s unusually interested in his affairs for once- most of the time, she just gave him the information and sent him on his merry way. Sombra was not one to dilly-dally or make pleasant conversation. There were better things for a seer to do than ask Jesse about the weather or how things were faring in Sherwood. So why was she acting different now? He purses his lips, tilting his head to the side as he studies Som’s face- not that there was any set way to read her. She’d be smirking like that until the day she died and then some. As it is, there’s no clue for McCree to find that would make it easier to figure out what she was thinking. Just that damn insufferable smirk and those unnatural eyes, boring into him, picking him apart piece by piece.

“Yeah, was plannin’ on bein’ home before noon,” he pauses, shifting the pack over his shoulder to a more comfortable position as he hooks a thumb through one of his belt loops, “unless you had some more info for yours truly?”

There’s a crackle of energy, of static in the air between them. A dull ache makes itself known behind his left eye. A shiver rolls up his spine, raising gooseflesh on his dark skin. Som clicks her nails together, forcing him to look at her.

Sombra’s smirk grows, lilac lips spread into a dangerous grin, those violet eyes zeroed in on him. The skin of his left forearm tingles in a familiar way.  _ Oh no. _ He drops the pack of food, barely hearing the  _ thud _ as it hits the ground, more focused on gripping his arm to stave off the tingling that has quickly shifted into throbbing.  _ Gods, no _ . Som’s eyes flick down, then back up to lock with his. His left eye twitches involuntarily.  _ Fuck _ , the last time he’d felt this was when he’d first been cursed with Deadeye, and now here he was, about to break into a cold sweat with the urge to chop his left arm off just to stop that incessant throbbing growing by the minute. He tries to meet Sombra’s stare with a glare, but he knows it comes off without any heat, as pain shoots up the left side of his body, from his fingertips and toes all the way up to center behind his left eye.

“Wh-What’re you-” he cuts himself off with a grunt, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that it would relieve just a bit of the pressure, a bit of the pain. He knew that Som was a seer, was dabbling in magic long before McCree had even gotten a taste of it, but this was beyond what he was used to. A seer dabbled in information, in fortunes and fate, and, as far as Jesse was concerned, whatever it was that she was doing was  _ neither _ of those things. McCree groans in agony, gloved fingers digging into his arm as a wave of pain threatens to make him chuck up whatever he’d eaten the day prior.  _ What in all of York _ … He can’t even finish that thought, as Sombra takes in a breath, still watching him with that damned grin on her face.

“You’re going to have some… opportunities ahead of you in the coming weeks, Jesse,” the seer declares, pulling McCree out of his own head. He manages to pry open his eyes to meet hers, intense violet meeting pained amber, “I recommend that you do not pass them by. Follow your gut and go with the flow, take chances you normally wouldn’t, and you will find things going in your favor.” Sombra reaches one long-nailed finger out, static nipping at his skin the closer she gets, the pain intensifying, until her fingertip connects with the tip of his nose. 

“Boop.”

And with that, the intense throbbing, the pressure, the pain- all of it dissipates in an instant. Dragging in heaving breaths, McCree braces his hands on his knees, world spinning around him. Sombra only chuckles at him, like she doesn’t give a damn about him. Anger swells in his midsection at her nonchalance.  _ Damn witches _ , they give him nothing but trouble half the time- Som was usually the least difficult, but she had her moments. Like now, doing Gods knows what to him to coax such an intense reaction out of him. McCree sucks in a grounding breath, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to come back to himself. In,  _ 1 2 3 4, _ out,  _ 1 2 3 4 _ . A dull ache still persists behind his eye, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Unclenching his jaw and bracing himself, McCree straightens up and levels a grinning Sombra with a glare. 

“What in the fresh Hell did you just do to me, witch?!” He snarls at her, taking a few shaky steps forward into her space, using his almost full foot of extra height on her to his advantage. Not that it does much- she only tilts her head up to look at him, clicking her nails together as she crosses one arm over her chest, obviously not intimidated in the slightest.

“Oh, calm down. I was just peeking into your future- didn’t know it would trigger such a  _ bad _ reaction,  _ Jessito _ . I’m sure a big strong thief such as yourself handled it just fine,” Som says, delicately cupping the side of her face with her own hand. From the look in those damn violet eyes, she  _ absolutely _ knew what it would do to him. Yeah, he wasn’t the most  _ keen _ on the details of his curse, but it seemed like another witch using magic on him was off-limits. McCree wonders why he still associates himself with witches when all they seem to do is tease and taunt and curse him. He huffs, turning and scooping the bag of supplies off the floor in lieu of taking Sombra’s bait. Damn it, he just wants to get  _ home _ . Away from witches and back to familiar magic, like Lucio’s lute and Zen’s healing hands and Mako’s affinity for animals.

McCree goes to exit the room again but Som is  _ still _ there, not moving, staring at him with that knowing smirk (but of course it’s knowing, she’s a  _ fucking seer _ ) and those terrifying violet eyes that threaten to pick him apart piece by piece the longer she looks at him. He averts his eyes from her in quiet hopes that she’ll  _ stop _ , but she isn’t doing anything magic to him- he’d know immediately if she did, his arm acting like a goddamn witch radar.

Jesse grunts at her when she doesn’t even make to move. There’s a question on his tongue that he can’t help but voice, not when she was looking at him because she knows what he wants to ask. “Why’d you have to go and tell me that anyway, Som?” The seer wasn’t usually in the business of meddling too much into his affairs, content to point him in the right direction for his thievery and sit back to watch the kingdom go up in flames. But there must’ve been some reason, some change of heart for her to hand out more than just the bare minimum of information.

Her smile curls into a wicked grin once more, index finger uncurling where she had it pressed against her cheek. She stares straight into his eyes as she speaks, “let’s just say I  _ saw _ something in you,” and she taps her temple, eyes flashing briefly from violet to bright cyan for just a moment before they’re back to being their normal purple.

_ Good Gods _ , for some reason that creeps him out more than any premonition that Som could’ve given him.

Jesse doesn’t let the shiver that rolls down his spine at her freaky eyes show- instead, he muscles his way past her, ignoring her chuckle and the  _ click click _ of her heels as she follows him down the stairs. He pauses just outside the door, adjusting the pack slung over his shoulder, and turns to look at Som one last time. McCree tips his hat with one hand, a grumbled, “thanks,” all he gives his informant before he steps out of the comfort of the warm tavern and into the crisp air of the early morning.

_ Opportunities _ .

Now what in all of York could  _ that _ mean?

\-------------------------------------------------------

McCree neglects to mention Sombra’s advice when he returns to their hideout a little after midday. No point in bringing up a crazy witch’s even crazier premonitions. Besides, not like it affected nor would affect his team in the slightest. Whatever opportunities that would present themselves in the future he would handle when they came. For the time being, there were more pressing matters. 

Like lunch. 

Som always made sure to send him off with enough food to last them a good week. There must be something about watching a rag-tag group of magic users try to single-handedly dismantle the tilted economy that made her more generous than usual, because the pack was full to damn near bursting. Enough to last them a fortnight, really, and that was without the fruits, vegetables, and meats that they claimed from the forest and its animals. Hana’s face lit up when he walked through the door, and she practically started drooling when he upended the bag’s contents onto their dining room table. 

Jamie cooks some pheasant that McCree had shot down on his way back home, and Zen makes a salad using the fresh greens he’d gotten yesterday. A hearty meal, all in all, with the breads and other non-perishables that Som had sent back with him. They thoroughly gorge themselves- Hana more so than the others- until there’s not even a crumb left. With bellies full and not much else to do than plan and prepare for tomorrow’s heist, McCree brings forth the info Som had given him the night before to the table. 

“Nottinghamshire? That’s real close to the last place we hit- you sure Som said there?” Lucio asks after a sip of fresh water from his tankard. 

McCree nods, ticking off all the details of the heist on his fingers, “Nottinghamshire, at dawn. Treasury’s on the east side of town. Contact lives round the corner from the bakery in the center of town.” He pauses to mull everything over in his head, doubting himself now that Luc is questioning him. He’s got a damn good memory- as he should, he’s only 21- and he is  _ positive _ of what Som told him. “Sombra’s never been wrong before. Maybe needlessly cryptic, but never  _ wrong _ .” 

Lucio still looks a bit wary, but he concedes with a shrug. Mako and Jamie seem particularly disinterested in the conversation, but, then again, they weren’t participating in this heist. Hana is hanging on his every word, stars practically in her eyes as he lays out the details for the plan, specifically addressing her more often than not. He was sure if they had parchment and a quill that she’d be taking notes.

Hana was going to be instrumental in the getaway. Meka could carry both Jesse and her on her back, plus could run faster than any of the guards combined- Lucio would already be halfway home at that point, since he was just to serve as a distraction. He’d set up in the center of town and play on his lute, distracting the townspeople and the guards with his playing. And it wasn’t just because he was one hell of a musician- knowing Luc, he’d strum out some sort of enchanted tune that would ensnare the masses more than usual. Only something big would snap them out of their trance. 

That something big would be the Outlaw McCree. 

He’d be the one to make his way into the treasury without being spotted and make his escape with the coffer’s contents in hand. The inevitable ringing of the guard tower bells would snap everyone out of their bard-induced trance, which gave Luc ample opportunity to make his escape. After a quick drop off with the contact, all Jesse had to do was race to the exit of town, hop on Meka and they’d be home sweet home. 

Hana is gazing at McCree like he’s a goddamn genius, all starry-eyed and mouth agape as he lays out the details of their plan. He can’t help but squeeze the youngest member’s shoulder, unable to stop the proud smile that crosses his features when Hana beams up at him. She was likely the most motivated of everyone in the group to upset King Shimada and his hold on the kingdom. And, after everything that happened to her, she has the right to be. The fire in her eyes has only just started to spark again. McCree would do everything in his power to see it never burn out.

Jesse looks at Hana, at her damn near tangible excitement, and then at Lucio, who was already tuning the strings of his lute with a coy smile on his face, and knows that this would go off without a hitch. They were going to do  _ great _ .

\-------------------------------------------------------

The guard tower bells, along with the outraged scream of the guard that found him as he was exiting the treasury, are a perfect song to accompany McCree’s escape. He relishes in the sound as he breaks into a sprint, arms pumping as if he was swimming through the very air, with a grin parting his lips so wide that his face hurts.

A big reason why he loved these heists, other than the whole ‘pissing off King Shimada’ thing- they always made him feel  _ alive _ . Nothing like the threat of death and/or torture in a jail cell to really make one appreciate their own mortality.

Adrenaline runs like fire through Jesse’s veins, spurring him on to move faster, faster,  _ faster _ . He rounds a corner to go down a side street, following the scent of freshly baked bread to where he could find contact’s house. He can hear guards clamoring on the opposite side of the buildings to his right- where the main street is- heading away from him and towards where he’d been. McCree stifles a snort. Seemed like King Shimada needed to reevaluate his guards before sending them out to the field if they were  _ this _ foolish. He slides out from the side street and towards the main road, narrowly avoiding running straight into a pedestrian. 

“Well, excuse me,” Jesse calls over his shoulder, already breaking out in a sprint towards the bakery. Normally, he was much more of a gentleman than that, but he had places to be. He was sure the cloaked figure would forgive him, maybe not now, but definitely later. The closer he gets to the bakery, the more prevalent the intoxicating aroma of fresh food becomes. The scent of warm bread makes him salivate, almost distracting him from searching the outside of houses for the contact’s symbol.  _ Gods _ , what he wouldn’t give to nab a few sweet rolls and dig in- his stomach grumbles at him, a reminder that he didn’t eat enough this morning before heading out.  _ Next time _ , he promises himself,  _ next time we’ll grab fresh bread for the gang _ . Jesse puts thoughts of food to the side, whipping his head around when he catches the sight of a yellow circle with a dot in the center.  _ Bingo _ . 

McCree bolts for the side of the house, having to duck down a narrow alley first, and climbs up it as fast as he could before launching himself through the window. He almost knocks head first into a gigantic woman’s well-muscled abdomen, but equally muscled arms catch him before he can fall. Jesse stumbles back and tips his hat in greeting, a flush overtaking his features at his clumsiness. He wasn’t usually like this- must be nervous about setting a good example for Hana. Plus, he didn’t want to leave her alone for too long, worried about how she’d respond if he didn’t show by the extraction time. Hopefully not explosively (she’s not Jamie), if he’s lucky.

The woman- with light hair shorn short and a menacing look to the set of her chiseled jaw- grunts in response to his hat tip and extends one hand forward. Jesse takes a moment to gawk at her- she’s  _ tall _ , ridiculously muscular, and McCree feels more than a little threatened by her presence. But there’s nothing but kindness in her eyes, even though the rest of her screamed intimidation. 

“My name is Aleksandra Zaryanova, I am contact here in Nottingham,” she tells him when he reaches out a tentative hand to grip hers, “you may call me Zarya. I am told by barkeep you intend to anger and upset greedy king?” 

McCree can’t quite place her accent, but she was definitely not born and raised in York. There’s a soft sound from the stairs leading up to where he and Zarya were that has his hackles raising for just a moment. He flicks his eyes behind her to see a woman who also looks like she’s not from around here, brown hair piled into a bun on top of her head. Jesse immediately relaxes- she doesn’t seem the type to harm a fly in good conscious. She looks a bit nervous, but relieved to see that it was him and not someone with ill intentions. There’s a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand that McCree notices, identical to the one he can see on Zarya’s hand. Ah.  _ Married _ . Or, at the least, engaged. A pang of longing flares in his midsection that he quickly stifles. No time for that. 

Would probably never be time for that. 

“Yeah, I reckon that’s exactly what we want to do,” he says, averting his eyes from the smaller woman to face the giant in front of him, “‘s not a good man, doesn’t give a damn ‘bout his subjects. He must want to watch us starve with how much he taxes us. Least we can do is give the money back to the people it rightly belongs to.”

McCree shakes her hand once before letting go and handing over the heaping burlap sack of shillings to Zarya, who takes it like it weighs nothing. The smaller woman approaches him with a similar looking bag, which he can only guess at the contents of, and hands it to him with a soft smile gracing her round features. “Thank ya kindly,” he responds, taking it from her and clipping it to his side. Jesse turns on his heel to go out the way he came in, already feeling like he’s wasted too much time, but is stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder. 

“Outlaw, you do much more than give people back their hard-earned money,” Zarya tells him without waiting for him to turn around and face her, “you give us  _ hope _ . If man such as yourself can fight against many guards, the very  _ kingdom _ , and come out unhurt-” 

“-then maybe we can too,” he hears a softer accented voice say. Jesse turns to look at the both of them, lets his hand be taken by the shorter woman, and finds himself swept up in her teary-eyed smile directed his way. 

“My name is Mei Ling Zhou, and I believe in you, Outlaw McCree,” she tells him. 

“And I as well,” Zarya declares, puffing her chest out as she shoots a megawatt grin McCree’s way. Warmth wells up like a spring in his abdomen, flooding through him all the way to his fingertips. He can barely contain it, a smile bursting forth on his features that he wouldn’t dare stifle. This was why he did all of this- risked his life and lived out in the woods, fought through hordes of guards at impossible odds. It wasn’t just for his own personal reasons, nor the reasons of his team- it was for the people who felt helpless and stuck under the king’s thumb. It was to protect people like Mei and her smile, or Zarya and her love. Hell, even Sombra and all her witchy glory- if he didn’t fight for the people, didn’t show them that they had a  _ chance _ through all the poverty and war that came with King Shimada’s rule, then who would?

“Thank you,” Jesse says, barely a whisper, before he turns back to the window. He was already pushing it, time-wise- couldn’t spare a moment to get weepy and emotional, now could he? McCree climbs through the opening and launches himself from it, twisting to grab the sill before he could get too far. It makes it easier to jump the rest of the way to the ground, which he does with a soft, “hup.” Mei and Zarya peek out of the window and wave at him, which he returns, even as he starts backing away. Heart still full of warmth at their words, he turns and sprints towards the main road, determination in every footfall. If he could bring the people hope, like they said he did, then, damn it, he could do anything. McCree exits the side street to the sound of marching guards, which he turns to face with a cocky smile that quickly falls when he catches sight of the mass looking for him.

There’s a lot more guards than he expected on the main road.

One of them catches sight of him immediately. They let out a yell, alerting the rest of the group of 10- maybe 20?- of his presence. “Fuck,” Jesse whispers to himself, already turning away from the massive throng of guards heading straight for him. He breaks into a sprint faster than he ever has before, cold desperation pooling in his midsection. McCree can hear them behind him, feels pinpricks of nervousness on the back of his neck, because, yeah, he could  _ run _ but there was no way that he’d be able to lose them until he reached the forest.If he reached the forest. And he didn’t want to endanger Hana, lead the group of them straight to her. But he couldn’t hurt them- he wasn’t one for unnecessary violence, nor hurting innocent guards. Not even Deadeye would get him out of this one. Panic tightens his throat, ice in his veins, listening to the  _ thud  _ of footsteps racing after him, getting closer by the minute- think, think,  _ fuck _ , what could he do,  _ Gods _ \--

There’s movement from somewhere above him, off to the side. Jesse ignores it until a shadow passes overhead, much bigger than any bird that he’s ever seen before. Despite the situation, McCree whips his head up just in time to see a cloaked figure launching itself off the roof of a building, a longbow notched and pointed at the group of guards behind him. 

_ What in all of Sherwood Forest _ \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA welcome to the end of this chapter, get urself a treat and a drink to start the ~*~*waiting game*~*~ till the next one! These'll have shifting POVs btw !! Between Hanzo and McCree from chapter to chapter!! Let me know what you think, follow me on tumblr or twitter for fic planning shenanigans !! come pester me on tumblr at cawaiiey or twitter @cawaiiey_ !


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo's mission begins with saving the Outlaw McCree from a group of guards in close pursuit. Followed by more pursuit, and multiple confrontations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HANZO CENTRIC CHAPTER blease enjoy it

Hanzo’s first impression of the Outlaw McCree is not a great one. 

Not that it would, nor that he expected it to be, considering he was a filthy thief, but he was hoping that the man would impress him with some sort of skill or tenacity. Instead, Hanzo was almost bowled over by a ruffian clad in green that only called an, “excuse me,” over his shoulder as he passed. 

It had taken him a moment to realize who it was, as he watched the man sprint down the street, make a sharp left, and enter an alleyway. “Oh,” Hanzo had breathed when it finally hit him that  _ that _ was his target, before he took off in his direction. By the time he made it to the alleyway he’d seen McCree disappear into, the bastard was nowhere to be found. Hanzo silently curses how slow he was on the upkeep- that was wholly unbecoming of a Shimada such as himself, he  _ knew _ he was better than that- and figures there’s only one way the man could’ve gone. 

Up. 

Hanzo launches himself at the wall of the tavern to his right. It has a flat roof, as opposed to the home on his left. McCree  _ must _ have gone this way- where else would he have been able to make his escape, if not the rooftops? Hanzo climbs the cobblestone with ease and pushes himself up onto the top of the roof, eyes searching the skyline for a figure with an emerald cloak billowing behind him. All he had to do was find McCree and ask to join his troupe- perhaps show his loyalty in some way or another by demonstrating his skills that would be of an asset to his team, or an act of thievery--

There’s no one on the roof. 

Nor the roof beyond that. 

Or beyond  _ that _ . 

Hanzo  _ barely _ stops himself from gritting  his teeth in frustration. His father hadn’t given him another township that they would go to after this one- if he lost McCree here, how in all of York was he going to able to locate him again?! Where could he have gone in such short notice? Had he hopped from this roof to the next? Or perhaps to another alleyway? 

Well, regardless of which way he’d gone- Hanzo was going to have to keep moving. 

He treads across the tavern roof, searching the horizon and the streets below for any fast moving swaths of green, then hops across to the next roof.  _ Where… _ Hanzo is almost to the next roof when he hears a desperate shout from the street below, just a few buildings back. In an instant, he has his longbow out-composed of dark ash wood with blue wrappings where the grip was, and fine silver steel used as his arrow rest (truly, Stormbow was one of the only things he would not leave behind at the castle)- and an arrow notched. He takes tentative steps towards the edge of the roof, peeking out at the main road as his eyes scan the street below. 

_ Ah _ , there he was- that familiar, infuriating green cloak billowing behind him- the Outlaw McCree. 

And about ten or twenty guards in close pursuit.

Now- Hanzo realizes that he can let the guards capture him. Let them take care of it all- turn McCree in and locate the other two members of his troupe. He could wash his hands of it, leave it up to those that are trained to do so. But his father asked  _ him _ to do this- he wasn’t about to let the guards take his glory, earn  _ his _ praise. Sojiro would be the one commending  _ him  _ on his brilliance, his bravery, his leadership skills, as those bastard thieves rotted in their cells. So, while Hanzo was perfectly aware he could’ve let the guards handle this- if the Outlaw didn’t find some way to weasel out of their grip, which Hanzo is almost certain he could do- he wasn’t about to let that happen. 

He throws himself off the roof. 

The bowstring resists him in the most familiar of ways as he pulls it back, arrow aimed at the group of guards chasing McCree. Hanzo observes as the group slows suddenly, all eyes trained on him, including the outlaw’s. Letting out a long, slow breath, he lets the arrow go, watching as it sails through the air towards the guard at the front of the pack. The thin iron armor had spaces between the joints that were difficult to hit even for an expert marksman.

Hanzo smirks; he  _ knows _ he’s leagues better than even the finest marksmen that he’s met.

That rings true as the arrow finds its home in the guard’s shoulder, in his skin, tearing through his muscle. A scream rips out of his throat, one that Hanzo cannot help but smile triumphantly at.  _ Precisely _ . The force of it throws him back a bit, enough to knock into the guards behind him. They trip, topple, falling over each other in a graceless heap. Quite the opposite of such an undignified display, Hanzo rolls when he hits the ground into a crouched position right in front of a stunned outlaw, stopped in his tracks. 

“W...What in the,” he hears the outlaw sputter out, in a voice that Hanzo finds surprisingly sonorous and rich, like fine mead. A tone he’ll analyze in due time. He’ll have time to view McCree with a critical eye later- now, they needed to make haste, the guards scrambling to right themselves. Rising from where he’s perched in front of the outlaw, Hanzo lifts his head up to lock eyes with him, boring into those wide, shocked amber eyes. Even at his full height, McCree is almost a full head taller than him, so he tilts his head up to keep their gazes on one another. Surely this- his act of saving McCree- would prove his worth to the outlaw. 

Assured that he has more than shown McCree what he is capable of, he tells him, in a demanding tone, “I want to join your band of thieves.” 

Hanzo had expected McCree to answer him straight away, to perhaps say, “yes, of course, you just saved my life and I am indebted to you,” or something similar. Maybe nod and tell him to come along as they escaped from the guards. Certainly nothing less than acceptance of his offer to associate himself with an unruly group of disgusting ruffians.

McCree does not answer him, not with a head nod or shake, nor with a quick “yes”. Instead, he races past him, running at top speed towards the exit of town, and the forest of Barnsdale just beyond it. 

_ What _ .

Hanzo is much faster on the uptake this time- rather than stare at his retreating form, he takes off after him, feet flying across the uneven road. The guards have mostly recovered- save for the one with an arrow embedded in his shoulder, who was likely being transported to the nearest town doctor- and began chasing after them again. McCree seems to be moving just as fast as he is, the gap between them not widening no matter how fast Hanzo tries to run. He manages to throw his bow back across his shoulder, pumping his arms now in an attempt to close the distance and catch up to the outlaw. Chasing the billowing emerald cloak, Hanzo manages to start catching up to him, the guards behind them much slower in their chase. Cobblestone below their feet changes into wood and steel as they cross the drawbridge, the guards all coming to a halt instead of continuing their pursuit. Hanzo guesses that they’ve attempted this before and failed miserably, seeing as McCree was wearing all sorts of shades of the forest. Trying to watch him, especially through slats in an iron helmet, would prove difficult to someone with an untrained eye. 

Hanzo keeps his gaze fixed on McCree, even as the man ducks and turns and twists in an effort to get him off his tail. He will not be lost  _ that _ easily, not in mere shrubbery. The trees, with their low-hanging branches, thick with foliage that is steadily changing from verdant shades to rustic reds and browns, barely impede the outlaw’s progress. Hanzo, while less familiar with the greenery, matches his movements as best he can, and, at the least, manages to keep up with him as they make their way from the forest of Barnsdale to a more densely forested area. The chirping of birds in the distance, along with the sound of leaves crunching under McCree’s and his own footsteps are the only sounds in the wood- that is, until the outlaw  _ yells _ .

“Hana,” he booms, and Hanzo is almost caught off guard with how close that is to his name, “get back to base- got a tail.” 

Hanzo glances around in search of the person that McCree was talking to, only seeing shrubbery and various woodland animals.  _ Who was he talking to? _ There’s not a soul in sight- for a moment, Hanzo thinks the outlaw must be crazy, but then he hears the distant roar of some unknown creature. The ground below his feet seems to shake with every monstrous step, the faraway sound of branches snapping echoing off the trees surrounding them. Hanzo can hear his heart beating in his ears, fear flooding his veins at the terrifying noises of the unfamiliar forest. For a moment, it sounds as though the creature is heading towards them, but the vibrations of the ground lessen, the snapping of branches getting more distant with every shake of the forest floor, until Hanzo is certain that it is going in the opposite direction. 

“I told you,” he shouts at him, breathlessly, as soon as the danger isn’t present, “that I want to join you!”

McCree must not have heard him, or elected to ignore him, as he makes a sharp left. Hanzo follows, his irritation mounting with every hurried step after the other man. There is no way that he knows who Hanzo is, not with his disguise- so why is he  _ still running?! _ The forest becomes less densely packed as he follows him, until the early evening sky is above them, a modest sized clearing acting as their new surroundings. The outlaw doesn’t show any signs of slowing, as he tries to make a sharp turn back towards the comfort of the trees, attempting to lose him once again. While chasing McCree through an unfamiliar wood  _ definitely _ sounded like his idea of a great time, Hanzo did not want to dabble in this game of cat and mouse any longer. With a snarl, he pushes himself to dart forward, reach out his hand, and grab McCree’s billowing cloak before he can get even remotely close to the forest. 

The outlaw chokes as the cloak wraps tightly around his neck, but Hanzo only tightens his grip on the cloth. He yanks on it, sending McCree tumbling into the dirt and leaves covering the forest floor. Before he can react, Hanzo places one leather clad boot on the other’s chest, holding him in place as he levels him with a glare that he only hopes translates a  _ fraction _ of his irritation. McCree stares at the foot on his chest, chest heaving with labored breathing (Hanzo is sure he is not better, as every gulp of air burns in his lungs), but he’s not struggling against him. For the time being. If given the opportunity, Hanzo is sure the man would switch their positions in a heartbeat. Part of him wants to take out his bow and level the man with an arrow so he won’t be tempted to do so, but he figures that might not be taken as truly hospitable. He’s trying to become their  _ companion _ , not their enemy. 

“Outlaw McCree,” Hanzo says, and the man in question whips his head up to lock eyes with him. He’s momentarily taken aback by his looks- he had not expected the ruffian to be quite so… well, no, he won’t entertain that thought. He is rugged, with wiry hair just below his lower lip (not unlike his own stripe of hair on his face) and on the sides of his face in the form of long sideburns. His verdant cap is askew, a long crimson robin’s feather extruding from the leather band wrapped around the hat just above the narrow brim of it. Hanzo manages to rip his gaze away from the man’s flyaway brown locks to his amber eyes, which flick to his from where he’d been raking his eyes up and down his form. As their eyes meet, McCree’s narrow, and Hanzo’s widen at the anger and resignation he finds in their depths.

“If yer gonna kill me,” McCree spits at him, a snarl on his lips, “can ya just get it over with? I don’t have all day, partner.” 

Hanzo blinks down at him. Kill him? Did he honestly think that he wanted to kill him? He had stated his intentions from the beginning. Hanzo should’ve known that this ruffian would be an  _ idiot _ . Letting out a long nasal sigh, he lifts his foot off of McCree’s chest, much to the outlaw’s evident confusion. “I am not here to kill you, I assure you,” Hanzo says in- what he hopes is- a placating tone. He extends his hand towards the outlaw, attempting a smile that he is sure comes off as a grimace, to show the man his congeniality. To properly become a part of their ranks, he had to show that he was not dangerous to them- only to their enemies. Apparently chasing the leader of the troupe through the forest was not the way to convey such a thing. He’d jot that down for his next espionage attempt.

McCree is hesitant, but reaches out to take his hand nonetheless. With a grunt, Hanzo helps the man up and off the ground, but keeps a firm grip on his hand that results in a wary look on the outlaw’s part. Understandably- he is a stranger that just chased him through a forest. After throwing himself off the roof of a tavern and sinking an arrow into the shoulder of one of the guards that was chasing him. And after he’d demanded to join McCree’s band of thieves without so much as a hello. 

Hanzo is steadily realizing why McCree ran from him.

He is hoping that the embarrassed flush he can feel blooming underneath his skin is hidden by the black mask he wears. It wouldn’t do to turn pink in front of the outlaw, now would it?

“If yer not chasin’ after me to kill me, then why in the hell are you followin’ me?” McCree asks warily, even as his hand twitches in the other’s grip. More likely to try and escape than wait for an answer. He tightens his hold on McCree’s hand.

“Do not run off,” Hanzo says firmly, keeping his gaze locked with McCree’s confused one, “I want to join you and your band of thieves. I did tell you such back in Nottingham, if you recall.”

McCree’s derisive snort is more than enough answer as to what he thought of Hanzo’s demand. He rips his hand out of Hanzo’s, though does not make a move to run off. He settles his hands on his hips, not-so-surreptitiously revealing a loaded crossbow hooked onto his belt. Hanzo knows that that’s a threat in and of itself- so much as reach for Stormbow and he will find himself on the bad end of a loaded weapon. He’s momentarily glad he did not listen to the part of him that insisted drawing his bow on McCree was a good idea. If he had done so, he’s sure that there would be at least one crossbow bolt embedded in him, if not more. An awful end to a mission that he’s just started- his father would not have been proud to see him home so soon, and wounded as well. The thought of his father, upset at his failure, and the subsequent punishment that would follow, sends a chill up his spine that he quickly shakes off. Hanzo would not fail.

“Now, why in all of York would you wanna join  _ me? _ ” McCree asks him, incredulous. Hanzo is thankful that the outlaw wasn’t paying attention to the near physical way he reacted to the thought of his father’s possible punishment-  _ that _ would’ve been difficult to explain. This, however, is not- he had been running his story over in his head during the entire trip to Nottinghamshire and during the time he waited for the troupe to hit the town. Hanzo straightens up staring right into McCree’s eyes as he launches into his explanation. 

“I wish to join your troupe because I am a wanted man- much like yourself- and I have heard of your deeds in the next kingdom over. Why would I not want to be a part of a group of such gifted thieves?” Hanzo can see the way McCree’s chest puffs up a bit as he strokes his ego. Figures. He seems like the type of man to enjoy being showered with compliments that Hanzo is more than happy to give. Anything to get him on the outlaw’s good side, accepted into his ranks. “I believe I will be a valuable addition to your team- I am gifted in close combat and exceptionally accurate with my longbow.” 

McCree looks away from him, the gears visibly turning in his head at his proposition. Hanzo lets him think on it as he takes stock of the man, a calculative eye raking over his figure. He must be over six heads tall, and Hanzo has to tilt his head up to maintain eye contact. Those eyes of his- brilliant amber, sharp and with a depth to them that Hanzo can only wonder at- are topped with bushy brows, one of which is interrupted by a scar that starts on his brow bone and ends towards his hairline. McCree is much more filled out than Hanzo thought he would be- and younger as well. He must be around his own age, if he had to guess. The outlaw is all thick muscle, evident through the thin linen of his shirt, and even through the thicker cotton of his black pants. Hanzo is grateful that he did not have to grapple with McCree- though he poured attention on his upper body (he needed ample arm strength to properly use Stormbow) he was… lacking in leg strength. Looking at McCree and the corded muscle he possesses, Hanzo is sure that McCree would’ve won if it came to hand-to-hand combat. 

The outlaw clears his throat and Hanzo whips his gaze up from where he’d been taking stock of the man’s strength- purely in the case that he found his identity compromised and on the other side of a fight with the man- to see McCree staring at him. He reaches up and scratches at the slope of his stubble-covered jaw with one gloved hand, a spark of  _ something _ in his eyes that Hanzo cannot place. A moment later, his lips part into a cocky smile. 

“Alright. Fine, you can join us-”

Triumphant- that is  _ exactly _ how Hanzo feels. His father would be so  _ proud _ , to see him executing this so easily. McCree was too trusting, but this was playing exactly in Hanzo’s favor. This is just the beginning of his plan. Next, he’d get close to all of them, make them trust him, then pull the rug out from under them- they wouldn’t see it coming. Hanzo quells the desire to grin at McCree as he nods in understanding-

“-on one condition.”

_ What _ .

The triumph Hanzo had felt bleeds out of him faster than a stuck pig, thinly veiled frustration taking its place.  _ A condition?  _ What in all of York could the outlaw want of him  _ now?! _ He’d already saved the man’s life- what else did he need to do to prove to McCree that he was trustworthy? Before he can ask the outlaw what his terms are, the man turns and beckons him with a nod over his shoulder.

“I appreciate what you did back there,” McCree starts as he begins walking towards the forest at a leisurely pace. Hanzo follows without a word, eyes trained on McCree’s back as he leads him through the dense forest. Woodland creatures watch them from their hiding places as they crunch through branches and trees decorating the dirt below their feet. He tries not to marvel at the evening sun filtering through the canopy of leaves above them, the smell of clean grass and earth flooding his senses, but fails spectacularly. The forest was  _ gorgeous _ \- something he begrudgingly admits to himself. Though there is no way it is as beautiful as the castle, as nothing could beat his home in terms of aesthetic beauty. Hanzo barely remembers to respond to McCree’s statement, too busy taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Do you mean when I saved you from imprisonment and possible death?” He tries to sound matter-of-fact about it, but there’s a tinge of wonder in his tone that he somehow cannot hide.

McCree scoffs, raising a hand and wagging a finger at Hanzo with a sly look over his cloaked shoulder, “oh no, I could’ve gotten out of it myself. Jus’ needed a lil’ time, that’s all. Would’ve figured it out at some point.” 

Hanzo cannot help but roll his eyes at the outlaw as he ducks under a stray branch. He matches the other step for step in their pilgrimage through the trees, heading to Gods knows where. Part of him wants to take out his bow in the case that he’s being led into a trap. He makes sure to watch the outlaw the entire time, waiting for him to bolt or to turn on him with crossbow drawn. There was no telling what the other man was capable of, nor if Hanzo could trust him. A normal thief, a common brute, someone less  _ trusting _ would certainly have tried to lose him by now, or had a dagger against his throat. What kind of man was McCree, to turn his back on someone he just met without fear that he would take advantage of his naivete? Hanzo narrows his eyes at the man’s form. He must be very confident in his abilities. 

Or just very, very stupid. 

“I am sure you would have, McCree.” There’s no way he would’ve gotten out of it without his assistance, though he doesn’t bother pointing that out.

“There’s just one thing, stranger,” McCree continues, ignoring Hanzo’s statement while turning to look at him, “y’can’t hurt people like y’did back there. We don’ like causin’ harm to others save for a few scrapes and bruises. None of that arrow to the knee or shoulder business, let alone some place more important than that.” McCree stops in his tracks, completely facing Hanzo, seriousness etched into every line on his face. The outlaw’s deep amber eyes bore into his own dark brown ones, relentless, daring him to challenge his terms. Not that he ever would- his father’s reliance on him and his stubbornness to see this through prevented him from taking McCree’s bait.

Hanzo’s brows raise behind the mask. What kind of group of thieves did not want to cause harm to those that hope to impede their heists? If you asked him, it sounded silly. Stupid. Dangerous, even. What point was he even trying to prove? Even if he didn’t harm them physically, stealing from the town treasuries would affect everyone of them sooner or later. Didn’t he know that? Hanzo bites his tongue, but nods nonetheless. If all he had to do was not harm any of the guards- his own guards, now that he thought about it- then he’d be fine. There were much less violent ways to take care of pursuers.

McCree nods in appreciation and tips the downward slope of his green cap towards Hanzo, lips quirking on one side into an appreciative smirk. 

“Mighty kind of you to agree, sir. First thing we’re doing when we get back to base is blunting those arrows then.” 

Hanzo suppresses the desire to sputter in indignation (not his  _ arrows _ ) and only nods solemnly. He’d have to procure new ones when he goes back to the castle. McCree’s smirk widens for a split second as he turns and begins walking once more. He follows him through the shrubbery, watching McCree intently all the while- what kind of man  _ was _ he? To not want to hurt the very people that oppose him in his heists, to accept him into their ranks so easily. The Outlaw McCree was more of a mystery to him now than he was before he’d met the man. An enigma wrapped in the colors of the forest, in emeralds and verdant hues, with eyes calculating and glinting amber, a deep sonorous voice that Hanzo knows must twist lies. Part of him wants to know what this man is made of, what it was that made him willing to let a stranger join his troupe of thieves 

With a glance at the swinging burlap sack clipped to McCree’s belt, Hanzo reminds himself that the outlaw may be a mystery, an enigma, but that he was still a lawless ruffian that deserved to be brought to justice. Hanzo would do so gladly- not only for himself and his father’s praise, but for the people of York. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

They walk through the forest for a good hour. 

Hanzo loses track of the amount of times they twist and turn. Every tree looks the same now, a monotony of oaks and maples all densely packed together. It scares him knowing that he would not be able to find his way back to town on his own. Part of him fears the very idea that he may be stranded in the wood with three bastard thieves. But he knows that, if it comes to it, he would be able to defend himself and make his escape. Certainly walking in one direction would get him out of the forest at some point, right?

Speaking of, the forest they were in now was certainly not Barnsdale. It was much more wild, densely packed with a variety of flora and trees that stretched their heavy branches towards the sky. He could barely see the sky, though sunlight filtered in through the thick canopy of leaves above them. Spots of lazy light waltz along the forest floor, which is blanketed in fallen leaves, twigs, the occasional acorn. Hanzo would never dare to admit it out loud, but he truly  _ likes _ the forest and how it feels to be surrounded by the raw power of nature. This unnamed forest is truly a marvel- from the flowers sprouting out of the roots of some of the surrounding trees to the birds chirping above them. It is a place he could find himself exploring quite often, even after he’d driven McCree and his troupe into the ground. 

The outlaw does not attempt to make any more conversation the entire time they walk, leaving Hanzo to run through his plan over and over again. Prove himself and his skills to the troupe and McCree, perhaps participate in a heist to get them to trust him more, and then, close to the end of a fortnight since he’d left the castle, he would find his way back to town and lead the guards straight to them. There would be nowhere for them to run. His father would be so proud of him, Hanzo  _ knows _ it, and McCree would rot in prison for his crimes against York and her people.

After quite some time, the forest begins to thin around them. He can hear birds chirping in the distance, the faraway warble of swallows and robins’ song echoing off of tree trunks around them. A light breeze ruffles the leaves above them, adding to the birds and their sweet song. Hanzo is so distracted by the music of the forest that he almost walks straight into McCree, the man having stopped and turned to face him at some point. Luckily, he manages to avoid doing so with a hard stop, followed up by a long step back so he wasn’t a mere half-foot from colliding with McCree’s firm chest. The outlaw is staring at him with hands on his hips, left hip the one where his crossbow is holstered- cocked. There’s a smirk on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes- those are cold amber, boring into him, calculative and deep. Hanzo meets them with his own, chin tilted up, waiting on the man in front of him. His fingers twitch for the familiar weight of Stormbow. 

“Alright, stranger,” McCree starts, “right behind me is my camp. My band of merry men- the other thieves- all live here with me. If yer gon’ be a part of us, yer gon’ live here too, got it?” 

Hanzo nods in agreement, crossing his arms over his chest before he responds, “understood. I expected as much- do you have any other terms for me, other than lodging and your demand of nonlethal violence?” 

McCree stares at him for a few moments more, smile slowly dropping from his face, and a cold look taking its place. Hanzo can feel anticipation take root in his midsection, the familiar fight-or-flight instinct surging through his veins that he fights against. He had already come  _ so far _ \- there was no way he’d let some ruffian’s juvenile intimidation tactic get the best of him. McCree takes a step towards Hanzo, forcing him to tilt his head to keep their eyes locked. His fingers twitch, begging him to wrap them around Stormbow-  _ no, do not take the bait _ . Hanzo digs the digits into the meat of his biceps to quell the need to arm himself, meeting McCree’s calculative look with one that he hopes is open and innocent. 

“Jus’ a question,” he rumbles, deep and low in his throat, and the sound of his voice has Hanzo’s hackles raising without warrant. That was a  _ dangerous _ tone, one that spoke of years of hardship and experience. A smoke-addled croon that he could get swept up in if he wasn’t careful. McCree was a thief. A ruffian. A bastard. Hanzo could not let a sonorous voice get the best of him-  _ would _ not. Oblivious to his internal turmoil, those amber eyes- cold as the stone they resembled- are boring into him while McCree continues on, “why the mask?”

Hanzo tries to ignore the hair raising on the back of his neck as he answers, “as I said earlier- I am a wanted man. I do not wish to put my life in jeopardy by revealing my appearance. I am certain you can understand that, McCree.” Good. His voice does not waver in the slightest- he keeps his expression remarkably level, which surprises him. Hanzo can feel ice in the pit of his stomach. McCree’s eyes rake down his form once, twice, three times, before returning to his own. There’s a hint of  _ knowing _ in those depths. Hanzo swallows inaudibly.

“Yer not who you say you are, stranger.” 

Hanzo freezes. 

He runs over every possible mistake as McCree stares at him, waiting for a response. What could he have done that would have betrayed his lineage? Belied his disguise as such? Was he wearing a Shimada family crest? Was it the hair tie- it was probably the hair tie, it was pure silk and painstakingly embroidered- or perhaps McCree knew what he looked like? Maybe he’d met him once before, at the castle grounds, or while in one of the townships- but of course he knew, the Shimada royal family looked not like most, there were not many that resembled them, and he hadn’t thought out his disguise well enough and  _ oh Gods _ , his father was going to be  _ so disappointed _ ,  _ how would he be punished for his incompetence if he made it back home alive  _ and  _ McCree is still staring at him- _

“I- Pardon. I. What… What do you mean?” Hanzo manages to say in a tone that, luckily, remains relatively even, though he feels his tongue trip over itself more than once. McCree’s eyes- cold amber, calculative stone- bore into him. Relentless. Searching.  _ Knowing _ . Hanzo’s stomach twists. 

_ What does he know? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LEMME KNOW WHAT U THIIIIINK bother me on tumblr with ur TOM asks plz i love this au...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree doesn't trust the new addition- but, he might have a bit of thinking to do on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY ITS ALMOST BEEN A MONTH IM HERE THIS ISNT OVER YET I PROMISE please read and enjoy !! 
> 
> come pester me on tumblr at cawaiiey or twitter @cawaiiey_ !

The last thing that McCree expected to come out of the masked stranger’s mouth was, “I want to join your band of thieves.” 

Well, he hadn’t expected to be saved from the guards by some random archer throwing himself off a roof either, landing in front of him and leveling him with an intense brown-eyed stare. So, his demand wasn’t really  _ that _ abnormal, all things considered- although he knew that there was no way this man was serious, right? What kind of person just shoots a guard to save a thief, then demands to be a part of their group? It just wasn’t normal. 

And,  _ normally _ , McCree was more of a gentleman and wouldn’t leave a rescuer without a proper thanks- not that he was rescued often, mind you- but he thought about Hana waiting for him on the edge of Barnsdale and Sherwood forest, and decided thanks would have to be given some other time.  _ That _ was why he bolted- Hana would be worried about him if he didn’t. Plus, the archer couldn’t have been serious about his demand, and McCree didn’t have time to entertain a stranger’s deluded fantasies. 

Another thing he didn’t expect was for the masked stranger to  _ follow him _ .

McCree was used to being chased. By  _ guards _ .  _ Not _ by random archers. It should’ve been fine, though, no normal person was able to track him through the familiar grounds of the forest- guards had tried before, and he  _ always  _ lost them within the first few minutes. He should’ve figured the masked stranger wasn’t  _ normal _ , because the bastard followed him with surprising ease, matching him movement for movement, ducking and weaving through the wood, and  _ still fucking staring _ , Gods. McCree glanced over his shoulder a few times during the chase just to find those deep brown eyes locked onto his form, unblinking. Creepy as all hell, if he was being honest.

By the time he’d gotten close to where Hana was waiting for him, he realized that there was  _ no way _ he was losing his tail. Desperate, McCree had called out to her and told her to go on ahead, which he knew she’d done when Meka roared. At that point, he knew he’d have to take some drastic measures to get rid of who was following him- if he had to, Peacekeeper was on his belt, a familiar and welcome weight, though that was truly his last resort. In the meantime, he’d continue to try and lose him. McCree ran through his escape route in his mind, letting himself go on autopilot. If he took a sharp turn here, he’d be in a clearing, and then he could lose his insistent pursuer by doubling back-

Lots of things were happening to him today that he didn’t expect to happen- like having his cloak grabbed and suddenly ending up flat on his back with a leather sole keeping him pinned to the forest floor. 

McCree knew then and there that he’d lost the upper hand.

The masked man, with his long hair tied up into a ponytail, directed his piercing gaze down at him. McCree desperately took stock of his pursuer- daunting upper body strength, definitely because of the longbow he used, dressed in commoner’s clothes but without a scratch or even a smudge of dirt on him. Looking down at him over a nose that McCree can only describe as  _ regal _ , those umber eyes bored into him, widening when he narrowed his own. Something wasn’t- still isn’t- right  about this and he knew it. Only one reason for a man to chase him down through the woods and pin him to the floor, and it wasn’t for what he’d said earlier.

_ I want to join your band of thieves _ , yeah right. This man likely wanted to kill him. No other explanation for it. He wished he’d just get it over with, in all honesty.

McCree had spit out the demand to get it over with in a snarl at the stranger and he got such an unexpected response in return. Again with the expectations not being met- this entire day was a mess of  _ unexpected _ . Instead of drawing that bow he’d demonstrated his prowess with on him, he reached out a hand to hoist Jesse onto his feet. And tried to smile at him, but it really looked more like he’d had a stick up his ass that he was trying to ignore. McCree was careful, hesitant, when he took the stranger’s hand and let himself be pulled up. He’d listened to his assurance that he wasn’t there to kill him, had asked him why he was there then, and all the masked man had to say was that he wanted to  _ join _ him. Had said that he’d be a  _ valuable addition _ to their team, whatever the hell that meant, and that he was a wanted man.

What kind of wanted man didn’t have a speck of dirt on him, clothes impeccable, and wore a silk ribbon the color of  _ pure gold? _

McCree hadn’t believed him for a second. Still didn’t believe him, even despite the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that said to let the man join them. He’d damn near turned the masked stranger away- though he was pretty sure that he’d be followed  _ again _ if he’d done so- but then Som’s pretty lil’ voice came ringing in his ears again. 

_ “You’re going to have some… opportunities ahead of you in the coming weeks, Jesse. I recommend that you do not pass them by. Follow your gut and go with the flow, take chances you normally wouldn’t, and you will find things going in your favor.” _

Was  _ this _ one of those  _ opportunities _ that Sombra was talking about? 

Well. Som had never been wrong before- plus, McCree wasn’t about to go against a witch’s prophecy. Last time he crossed one of them he’d ended up cursed and branded with a skull and chains on the inner part of his left forearm. He didn’t know what Som was capable of but he  _ really _ didn’t want to risk it. 

Besides- if the damn archer was determined enough to join their troupe that he’d chase him through an unfamiliar forest, then he was probably serious. No harm in having another soul devoted to taking King Shimada down a peg or two. 

But… Hell, it still wasn’t sitting right with him, even after the masked stranger had agreed to his terms of nonlethal violence, and to staying on base with him and the rest of the band of merry men. Man was too clean, prim, and proper to be as wanted as he said he was. McCree couldn’t help but bring it up to see how the archer reacted- which brought them to now. 

The masked man looks shocked, though his voice is remarkably even as he speaks, “I- Pardon. I. What… What do you mean?”  _ Huh _ . That’s certainly a response. McCree knows that this stranger isn’t who he says he is- he looked less like a wanted man and more like a kid playing dress-up, if he was being completely honest. The mask hid his features well enough, from the bridge of his beaky nose along the sharp curve of his cheekbones and up. But he didn’t know any wanted men that would wear a mask- for Gods’ sake,  _ he  _ didn’t even wear a mask. Only men he knew that wore any type of masks were plague doctors or those wearing disguises. Trying to run… from… things… 

Oh.

Maybe he’s not wanted or maybe he is- all McCree knows is that this man must be running from something or other, something that requires him to cover his face. Something that’s driving him to join up with a band of misfits. Maybe he wants to fit in, to escape. McCree thinks about Zenyatta, so eagerly accepting his offer to join up with him, Jamie, and Mako, way back when. He hadn’t asked the monk any questions then, and Zen had rescued the three of them much like how the archer had rescued him. Yeah, maybe he was the one that had offered Zen the choice to join them back then, but who was he to distrust someone seeking him out for help like this?

McCree raises a hand to scratch at his jaw, a nervous habit that he can’t seem to get rid of. Gods, he felt embarrassed as all Hell- all prepared to call the stranger on his bluff without thinking of his circumstances, whatever those may be. As long as he wanted to join their team and was willing to lead a life of crime for the greater good, then McCree didn’t care who he was or where he came from. Anyone that would fight with them against that bastard king was a welcome addition to their team. 

“I won' pry, but yer definitely not a wanted man. Not my place to ask you 'bout it neither,” McCree pauses and attempts a smile at the masked man, who seems ridiculously tense, those umber eyes darting from his face to Peacekeeper at his side. He holds his hands out in a placating gesture, getting them away from his weapon to show he wasn’t going to shoot up the stranger without reason. Cautiously, as to not make the archer more tense than he already was, he continues, “yer welcome to join us. We could always use an extra man on heists.” 

The man in front of him slowly relaxes, but those eyes stay sharp and locked on him, boring into him as if waiting for McCree to take the offer back. McCree can see a hint of pink on his cheeks, barely visible below the mask- like he was embarrassed or angry. He only averts his eyes when he opens his mouth to speak, “understood. I am more than willing to be a part of this troupe, on the grounds that you do not ask me about my identity again. Please.” His voice is clipped, belying just how nervous McCree made him with his question. Part of him feels a bit guilty- here the stranger was, agreeing to all his terms, and McCree was about to question him on things he had no business meddling in. He silently resolves to not bother the stranger with anymore unnecessary questions- if he was willing to help them, he had no qualms about him joining them. 

“Gotcha, stranger. Can do… uh,” he pauses, trying to remember if the masked man had given him a name, but comes up blank. Well, a name was sort of necessary, so guess  “sorry to ask, but d’ya got a name?” 

“My name is H-”

The stranger cuts himself off abruptly. His cheeks darken intensely, a vibrant red that is starkly visible underneath his ivory skin. McCree has to stifle a laugh- whoever this man is, he obviously isn’t experienced in doing this whole ‘running away’ thing- he  _ almost _ let his actual name slip, if his reaction was anything to go off of, instead of a pseudonym. Even McCree didn’t spread his name around- it was why he was known as ‘the Outlaw McCree’ and not by his first name. The only people who called him that were his family, and only in private. To everyone else, he was no more than a nameless thief and he liked to keep it that way.

“Sorry, what was that? H...Henry?” McCree crosses his arms over his chest, trying not to laugh, and smirks at the masked man, “you don’t quite look like a ‘Henry’ to me, stranger.” 

The man in front of him scowls, shooting him a brown-eyed, scathing glare that McCree can’t help but laugh at. It spills out of him in easy chuckles, which just intensifies the look that the stranger is sending his way. “Sorry, sorry,” he says between rumbling laughs, though he’s anything but apologetic, “go on. Didn’t mean to interrupt. As you were sayin’.”

Huffing, the stranger shakes his head at McCree and continues, “what I  _ meant _ is that I have no name that  _ you _ need to be aware of, Outlaw.” His tone is just as biting as that glare he seems to have set permanently on McCree. Apparently he didn’t take too kindly to being called Henry. Noted.

Alright, fair enough. McCree shrugs. He’d promised the masked man he wouldn’t ask him about it again and he’ll make good on that. It wasn’t polite to call him ‘stranger’ for the rest of the time he was a part of their troupe though- McCree liked to be gentlemanly to those that saved his life and were fighting for the same cause. Pursing his lips, McCree studies the masked man in front of him- shorter than he is, with inky black hair pulled into a tight ponytail on the back of his head. Only a chunk of hair is out of his ponytail, hanging in front of his face as fringe. The hood of the long black cloak around his shoulders is down, giving McCree a  _ mostly _ uncovered look at his face, save for the leather mask. Everything about his features is pointed and sharp- from the glare of those brown eyes, the incline of his beaky nose, to the cut of his cheekbones and jaw. Dark blue shirt, worn leather bracers, belt, and shoes, beige pants- he’s  _ dressed _ like an unassuming man, except for the mask and full quiver, plus the  _ extremely _ well-made bow slung across his back. And the look on his face- the way he holds himself, head tilted up to assert his dominance, back ramrod straight… 

Hell, if McCree didn’t know any better, he’d say that the masked man in front of him was royalty. 

McCree shakes his head at himself and his thought process. Didn’t matter if mister no-name was from some faraway kingdom. He was here for a reason, and that reason was to join their troupe- heritage be damned. Still didn’t solve his problem, though. What do you call a man who refused to give you his name after bodily throwing himself off a roof and shooting a pursuing guard in the shoulder? 

He eyes the man, searching for some sort of defining feature that he could call him. Sharp- on account of that glare and those cheekbones? No, that was just stupid. McCree glances at his hair- Ponytail? Er- Inky? Okay, this is why McCree isn’t allowed to name things- he remembers when Lucio and Hana had found Bastion in the giant tree grown through their base. A wood golem that was on its last legs, dying in the middle of Sherwood. Lucio had brought him back with some fancy bard magic, breathing life into once rotting redwood. Luc and Hana had named him Bastion, which was fine with McCree, because he was just going to name him  _ Woody _ . With a sharp shake of his head, he yanks himself out of old memories and goes back to the task at hand- trying to figure out a suitable name for the bow-wielding stranger who’d saved him.

Ah. Bow-wielding. Now, that sure is a defining feature- nobody else on the team used a longbow. And McCree didn’t really think of Peacekeeper as a true bow- she was more automated than the weapon that the masked man prefered. 

“Alrighty then, stranger. Fine if I call you Archer, then? On account of your wicked marksmanship back there,” McCree asks, zeroing in on the man’s ash wood bow peeking out from behind his back. The dark wood contrasts nicely with the bright blue wrappings that dress the grip- looked like a real expensive piece. Fitting for a person who held himself like royalty. The man in front of him pauses for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his casual acceptance of his bitter response, before he slowly, carefully, nods his head once. Archer it is then- McCree’s lips split into a wide smile before he can stop himself. He could name things- well, kind of. Certainly not well, but this was fine for now. Problem solved.

“Well, that’s just dandy, then. C’mon now, Archer,” McCree turns on his heel and starts walking once more, through the thinning wood towards their home base, “only a few more minutes of walkin’ and we’ll be back on base. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew an’ then you’ll be part of our troupe.” He silently hopes that everyone will be welcoming of the new addition to their crew, odd as he might be. The man  _ did _ save his life after all- a fact that he has to constantly remind himself of, as his first instinct is to distrust a mask-wearing, secretive stranger. 

The archer follows him through the brush, a comfortable silence falling over them like before. McCree doesn’t mind it too much- wasn’t like he could do much in terms of small talk, considering how tight-lipped his new ‘friend’ and teammate was. Rather than awkwardly attempt to make small talk, he listens to the sound of the forest- the pitchy cry of warblers and robin’s chirping. Crickets start to slowly wake up around them, adding to their part of the song. McCree whistles along with the birds and the insects. The sun is slowly sinking towards the horizon, he can tell by the way the tree’s shadows elongate and the forest is awash in warm pinks and oranges. No matter how many times he sees it, the woods never fail to take his breath away. If the soft gasp behind him is any indication, his new companion must feel the same way. 

The trees around them finally stop, and McCree smiles at his base-  _ his home _ in the middle of the clearing. Archer behind him makes an audible sound of surprise at the sight of it, which is understandable. Wasn’t every day that you saw a massive hollowed-out tree trunk growing through half of a building. McCree figures he’ll give their new teammate an extensive tour when the sun is back up the next day- as for right now, with the early evening settling lazily around them, he wants to get back inside and debrief everyone, put their worries to rest. Especially Hana’s- he’s sure she’s anxiously waiting for him, as is the rest of the team.

He strides down the  raised edge that surrounds the clearing, past the fire pit that they sat around on certain nights, and towards the door of the base. It takes a moment for his companion to react but, after a few steps, Archer follows him. If he peeked over his shoulder, he’s sure he would catch the man gaping at his base in awe, but he doesn’t bother doing so. McCree reaches for the door and goes to push it open- only for it to swing out before he can even touch it, and he finds himself tackled to the ground with a mess of long brown in his face.

“McCree! McCree, I was so worried,” he hears Hana babble in his ear, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, “you said you had a  _ tail _ and- and- I thought that we were going to lose you and-” She trails off, finally noticing the person who was following McCree. He can only guess what Archer looks like right now. “And- and who is that?”

McCree grunts as he wraps his arms around Hana’s waist and hefts the both of them up, struggling to stand without the use of his arms but he manages, somehow. Their youngest member climbs around him until she’s on his back, arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist, staring over his shoulder at the masked man. Jesse holds onto Hana’s legs, familial affection welling up in him as he piggybacks her over to where Archer is standing, rigid and staring at the two of them with wide eyes. 

“Hana, I’d like you to meet Archer,” McCree starts, gesturing with one hand at their masked companion, “he saved my life from some guards earlier and wants to join our troupe, an’ I’m more than willin’ t’let him after what he did.” Hana squirms against his back, grip tightening around his neck, as if she doesn’t trust a man wearing a mask to hide his features. Understandable, really. Jesse didn’t either-  _ still _ doesn’t 100% trust him, either, but he could overlook a little mystery in the face of someone willing to fight against King Shimada. 

“An’ Archer, this is miss Hana Song- y’can call her Diva on the field, we all got callsigns, by the by. She’s our resident fourteen-year-old forest child-” He cuts himself off with a yelp as Hana roughly tugs on his ear with one hand, huffing in annoyance. Jesse rolls his eyes, though a smile on his lips betrays how he really feels. Hana is basically his little sister- it was always fun to rile up someone so close to him. Correcting himself, McCree continues, “sorry, sorry. She’s the main mobility here and has only ever been with me on one heist- which was today, actually.”

Hana hops down from McCree’s back and walks around him to look up at their mysterious companion, hands on her hips. Jesse watches her puff her cheeks out, inspecting the masked man with a critical eye, and sees Archer practically start sweating under her scrutiny.  _ Hah _ , the man must  _ really _ not want anyone to figure out who he actually is. McCree grins as Hana thrusts out her hand, palm out, for Archer to take. 

“Hana Song,” she introduces herself, despite Jesse just doing so, “or Diva. Nice to meet you, Archer!” McCree crosses his arms over his chest, watching the two of them like a hawk as the masked man hesitantly reaches his own hand out to take Hana’s. She’s too enthusiastic when she shakes his hand, which McCree can only snort at. The damn brat is too  _ cute _ . “Welcome to the band of merry men!” 

_ Oh jeez _ , McCree sputters and runs over to Hana, already feeling an embarrassed flush coming over him. Archer blinks owlishly, turning his head up to stare at McCree just as he scoops Hana up and throws her over his shoulder. Resolutely ignoring her indignant squawks, McCree turns and heads towards the open door of their base. Heavens, McCree had never been embarrassed about what he called his troupe of thieves before Hana said it out loud. Coming out of her mouth, it sounded more like they were a group of children playing knights and thieves rather than an actual group of bandits. Luckily, Archer didn’t say anything about the name- McCree purses his lips, knowing he’d told the other that he called his troupe a band of merry men, and silently hopes that their masked companion isn’t judging him on it. 

McCree ducks through the doorway of their base, feeling Hana’s little fists pound at his back as she calls him all manner of things that he should really wash her mouth out with soap for. With a grunt, he hefts her off his shoulder and sets her down on the floor, expecting the kick to his shins and hissing in mock pain when her foot connected with his leg. She didn’t seem to see through his bluff, turning around and stomping off to where Meka was napping lazily in the corner. He hears hesitant footsteps behind him, just as he notices Mako and Jamie at the table, as well as two people descending the stairs. 

McCree turns to the stairs, catching sight of both a wide-eyed Luc and a serenely calm Zen. Nervously, he scratches at the back of his head and waves a hand dismissively, “uh, I’m… home?”

Lucio launches himself at McCree when he sees him, the teen wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face into his shoulder. Then Zen is beside him, a placating hand on the shoulder that Luc  _ wasn’t  _ blubbering into. McCree manages to get one arm around the bard when he sees Jamie hobbling towards the three of them, Lil’ Hog right behind him. “Oh no y’don’t,” McCree half-laughs, half-says, holding his hand out at Jamie while trying to calm their resident musician down, “I  _ know  _ you haven’t bathed in a minute.” Jamie looks playfully guilty, but still continues to hobble towards him. Begrudgingly, he lets Jamie in on the group hug, especially since he can’t stop him with Mako wrapping his massive arms around all four of them.

This said more than any words that they could’ve possibly spoken- even if McCree sometimes doubted it, this troupe, these people? They were his family. They  _ cared _ about him. He swallows back the thick feeling in his throat, a tell-tale sign of tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks, and contentedly nuzzles his cheek into the top of Lucio’s head.

Normally, McCree would let the affection last a lot longer (this  _ was _ his family, the closest friends he had in all of York, no, in the  _ world _ ) but he could hear uncomfortable shifting from behind him. Realizing his manners, McCree wiggles his way out of the circle of everyone’s arms and stumbles over to the entrance, where his masked friend is waiting, anxiously shifting from foot to foot and averting his eyes from the group of them.  _ Huh, must not be used to seein’ affection _ , McCree thinks, mentally noting that for later. If the archer wasn’t willing to open up now, maybe McCree could get him to later. It wouldn’t be easy to be a part of a group of people and not talk about one’s past. Especially since damn near everyone in this group was prone to oversharing, himself included. Sure, he said that he’d join on the condition that Jesse not ask him about his identity- but how long was he going to be able to keep up his facade? 

McCree figures that the archer will come around to it at some point- no use pressing a man that didn’t want to be pressed. 

Jesse clears his throat and gestures at his masked companion, introducing their new member to the rest of the crew, “Archer, this is the…” 

“Band of merry men,” he supplies, and McCree whips his head around to look at him, just in time to catch the slight raise to one side of his lips before he carefully evens out his expression. Jesse’s amazed- he thought someone this serious wouldn’t have the slightest sense of humor, but apparently he was wrong. 

“Y-Yeah, the band of merry men,” he clears his throat again, trying to ignore how embarrassing it is to hear the words ‘band of merry men’ coming out of someone else’s mouth before continuing on, “we’ve got Lucio, callsign is Bard-”

Lucio waves from where he’s wiping at his wet eyes with the edge of his long, pale green sleeves. The archer nods his head in greeting. 

“-then Zenyatta. He doesn’t go out to the field- just stays here and mans the fort.” 

Zen presses his hands together and bows just the slightest bit at the waist. His eyes are locked onto his masked friend, calculative and… knowing? McCree senses the archer shifting uncomfortably beside him, though he still nods at Zen. Jesse will have to ask their monk about it later- maybe he had weird witchy seer powers too? McCree shudders, thinking of his tattoo and the immeasurable pain that Sombra had ‘unwittingly’ inflicted upon him while looking into his future. Maybe he’d save that conversation for later. 

“The big ‘un is Mako- you can call him Lil’ Hog in the field.” Mako raises one massive hand and waves, grunting at Archer. He’s not surprised when their newest member shifts beside him- Mako  _ is _ practically a giant. He didn’t know his parents but, if McCree had to guess, there was likely giant’s blood somewhere in his lineage. Especially since Jesse was just over six heads tall and Mako  _ still  _ towered over him by a good head and a half. Didn’t really matter though- even if Mako is part giant, he’s a damn teddy-bear. Definitely more cuddly than Meka, Jesse thinks with a sidelong glance at the slumbering familiar in the corner, with Hana curled up next to her. 

Archer manages to be polite enough to nod at Mako, which Jesse takes as his cue to move on to the last person on their team, “and our malnourished beanpole here is Jamie, callsign Junkrat.” 

Before Archer can even make a sound, Jamie does what he always does- starts giggling. Maniacally. Laughter bubbles out of him, hands grasping at air as he laughs. Jesse rolls his eyes at his antics. Yeah, Jamie was a lil’ crazy (who wouldn’t be, after how close he’d brushed death?) but it was better than when they’d first rescued him from the prison. Jesse much preferred the loud, slightly creepy Jamie of now then the quiet, reserved, introspective Jamie from years ago. Didn’t feel quite right to see him that way. 

Jamie eventually quiets down enough for Archer to nod at him, though, with a quick glance over, McCree sees how clenched his jaw is. For a moment, he feels bad for their new companion. Wasn’t like he joined them expecting a band of underdogs, outcasts, and people just a  _ bit _ off-tilt. It’s fine, though, McCree knows that his new companion will adjust just fine. 

Well. He hopes he will. 

“So, gang, this here fellow will be joining us,” McCree launches into his explanation, picking up on the expectant way that Lucio was staring at him, “we’ll call him Archer, both on and off the field. Man saved me from some guards when the mission started going south earlier, an’ all he asked for was to join us. Y’all are… Okay with that, right?” 

Mako makes a noncommittal grunt, which Jesse knows is the best he’ll get out of him, and Jamie just shrugs, neither here nor there with it. Zenyatta nods. And Lucio speaks up, voice a little choked up from all his blubbering earlier. 

“Outlaw, I’d give any man that saved you the world,” Jesse grins, scratching at the back of his head as he flushes. Luc always seemed to appreciate him more than anyone else in the group- he and Hana were their youngest members, and McCree had taken them in when it seemed like they had no other place to go. They were- are his  _ siblings _ , for all intents and purposes. Lucio strides over to where Archer is and claps his hands on the masked man’s shoulders, staring up at him over the span of quite a few inches, as he continues on, “welcome to the team, Archer. We’re glad to have you and… thank you. Thank you so much.” 

McCree clutches his chest, a surge of familial affection welling up within him. Lucio was just… So good. Such a great kid. A perfect little brother, if he did say so himself. Jesse pointedly ignores how stiff Archer is at the attention, and how he hasn’t said a word to any of the team since he walked through the door, instead walking towards the table and unclipping the burlap sack from his belt. It was heftier than the bags that Ana had given him (she tended to act as their main contact- either her or Old Man Morrison assisted with their heists, up until today). McCree smiles, thinking about the massive Zarya and her little wife Mei- he can only imagine what they packed for his crew. 

The second he puts the bag of goodies on their table, Archer is beside him.  _ Gods _ , that scared him- man moves pretty damn silently, which is explainable when McCree thinks about his supposed reasons for joining. Another tick in the “wanted man” column it is then. He figures Archer must be hungry- no telling how long he’d ‘been on the run’ without food. 

With a tug, he unties the burlap sack. The tantalizing scent of fresh bread comes wafting out of the bag.  _ Those damn saints _ . McCree can’t help it- he gasps. 

He upends the bag on the table and all manner of breads comes rolling out- savory rolls with herbs and cheese stuffed into the top of them, sweet pastries and bread dusted with sugar, plain rolls. Everything he could possibly want- and all fresh, still soft to the touch. He’s not ashamed of the noise that escapes him when he immediately shoves a sweet roll into his mouth-  _ oh, bless those two _ \- it’s somehow still  _ warm _ . 

“OhmyGods,” McCree moans, savoring the taste of fluffy, fresh-baked sweet bread melting on his tongue, “Zarya an’ Mei are  _ angels _ .”

At the prospect of food, everyone swarms the table. He catches sight of Hana escaping with three or four rolls (one of which, he suspects, is probably going straight down Meka’s gullet), and Lucio sneaks away with two. Jamie and Mako hobble off to their corner with a collection of savory rolls, and Zen hides one herb-stuffed one in his sleeve before absconding upstairs. Jesse is nothing if not a gentleman- he makes sure to grab a few for their new companion. Turning to him with hand outstretched, he expects to hear some sort of thanks. Definitely not- 

“Where is the money?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeLLLLOOOOOO did u see the reference to one of my favorite fics Good Fences Make Good Neighbors because if u did then kudos to u you have excellent taste please let me know what u think!! come pester me on tumblr at cawaiiey or twitter @cawaiiey_ !


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo meets the gang! And finds out where the money is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT HERE'S THE NEXT CHAPTER it's totes dedicated to Jaz cuz she's been helping me extensively with this and i lov her CHECK HER STUFF OUT IF U GET THE CHANCE it's all good: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TallFlower/pseuds/TallFlower

He watched McCree jump through multiple mental hoops while standing there in the middle of the forest, rigidly awaiting an answer as to what the outlaw meant by, “ _ you’re not who you say you are _ .” Hanzo’s fingers twitched for the familiar heft of his bow- at least wielding it would mean that he’d be safe in the event that McCree decided to use his crossbow on him. If need be for his own safety, he wouldn’t hesitate to take more  _ drastic _ measures. 

But it hadn’t come to that. 

Hanzo had been- really, still is- quite perplexed that McCree had skirted around what he’d brought up.  _ Not my place to ask _ , he’d said. Hanzo had to stop himself from snorting when he heard that- it certainly wasn’t his place, no, but… Well, he couldn’t help but feel much better when he’d heard that. Slowly, Hanzo had relaxed his tense stance, but made sure to make McCree promise to not ask him about his identity again. The outlaw had his terms, and Hanzo had his own. Luckily, he’d agreed without a second thought. 

The slip-up with his name was a downright juvenile mistake. Hanzo was better than that- but, then again, he hadn’t… thought of a fake name to use. Okay, he’d thought through his entire reasoning for wanting to join them and his disguise but not a fake name because…? He didn’t think it would come up? 

So, maybe he’d overlooked something. Whatever. It all ended up working out- McCree had a name for him that he could agree with. One far better than the first one he’d tried to stick him with.

Hanzo had almost-  _ almost _ scoffed when McCree called him Henry. He  _ did not _ look like a Henry. Perhaps the disguise made him look like a Henry? No. No, Hanzo Shimada was nothing like a  _ Henry _ \- and, even without a fake name, he wasn’t going to call himself  _ Henry _ . Hanzo had standards.

For the time being, he would be Archer. This was acceptable enough- he was known for his prowess with the longbow, and to be called what he already is is not an issue. This would not take long, anyways. After gaining their trust, at the end of a fortnight, the Outlaw and his “band of merry men”, as McCree had so proudly called them, would be rotting in jail cells. And Hanzo would have earned his father’s approval and praise. 

The sight of McCree’s base of operations was… if he was being honest with himself, it was absolutely  _ breathtaking _ . 

In the glen stands a two-story building made of cobblestone and old wood, ivy snaking up the sides of it and moss trying to swallow up its left side. Just the sight of it in the middle of a forest, long forgotten but somehow still standing, is enough to take Hanzo’s breath away. That was without noticing the massive redwood trunk grown through the right side of the building. A tree that should’ve stretched higher than the canopy of trees surrounding them, should’ve pierced the heavens, naught more than a mere stump in comparison to one fully grown. It had swallowed up a good quarter of the house, though left the decrepit building standing. The very top of it was open, and from here Hanzo could tell the inside was hollowed out. He makes a note to ask McCree how they had done so- felling a redwood was no easy feat, and to hollow out the inside while still leaving it strong enough to support an entire building was nothing short of masterful. To see it all, bathed in the lazy early evening light, took the very air from Hanzo’s lungs.

He had been so caught up in the sight of McCree’s base that he had to rip his eyes away from it at the sound of the creaky oak door being roughly shoved open, just in time to catch sight of a small girl launching herself at McCree. Hanzo hadn’t been told that there were more members than the two he was briefed on. So seeing a little girl tackle the Outlaw to the ground was, frankly, more than a little surprising. 

She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Hana, as both McCree and the girl herself had said was her name, scared him with her scrutinizing look, but he had, apparently, passed her test and was allowed to shake her hand. The name of McCree’s troupe hadn’t sounded so childish until it came out of Hana’s mouth, he has to admit.  _ ‘Band of merry men’ _ was certainly… something to call a band of thieves that had been emptying out township coffers left and right. Certainly they weren’t all ‘merry’, as the name suggested. He hadn’t seen any indication that they would be anything but brutish ruffians living in a decrepit building in the woods- it didn’t matter how charming and awe-inspiring the base was. It was still home to group of bandits. 

And a small girl. Apparently.

Hanzo thought he could handle any more  _ unexpected _ members of the troupe. And then- after having to bear witness to an incredibly awkward (well, perhaps it was more awkward for himself than it was for the people involved) group hug- he was introduced to not just two more members, but  _ four _ more members. 

The first one wasn’t much of a shock- a small man that was probably only a few years older than Hana, at most, with natural hair pulled back into a poofy ponytail at the back of his head. There’s a few yellow and pink poppies stuck in it, which only makes him seem younger. He’s practically swimming in the light green, bishop-sleeved tunic he’s got on, which is only cinched around his waist with a brown leather belt that has clearly seen better days. It matches the trousers he has on underneath the tunic. He’s not wearing any shoes, Hanzo sees. Perhaps it wasn’t in their budget to afford shoes for their members, though they must be swimming in shillings by now. To be polite, Hanzo nods at him in greeting. 

The second person McCree introduces him to is a. A monk. An actual monk from distant Eastern lands. Hanzo can tell by the style of his clothes- canary yellow cloth wrapped around his slim person with a strip of red slung over his shoulder. It makes sense for his feet to be bare, as well as his head. There’s nine dots emblazoned on his forehead. 

Nine  _ familiar _ dots. 

Shambali missionaries have those dots- and only a handful of them have as many as the man in front of him. Hanzo knows him, distantly, but knows him nonetheless.

Tekhartha Zenyatta. 

Hanzo couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably at the knowing look in those vibrant blue eyes. The pounding of his heart ricochets in his ears, loud and insistent. Going into this, he hadn’t expected to be afraid of anyone in the McCree’s troupe. But now, with palms clammy and sweat beading at his temples, things are different. The game has changed- and not for the better. He sincerely hopes that Zenyatta does not remember him, but he doubts that he would be that lucky. It’s curious, though, that Zenyatta was here instead of with the rest of his brothers from the temple. This would be a discussion in the future, he’s sure of it. Hanzo might’ve been a bit tense when nodding at Zenyatta, but it was understandable, considering that he might be in danger if the monk knew who he was. 

The next member was someone he was prepared for. His size was still daunting, however, but that was to be expected. Mako, or Lil’ Hog, is just as much of a beast as Hanzo had expected him to be. Even without the boar’s mask, he was monstrous in appearance. The underbite, with jagged teeth jutting up from his lower lip, the smaller eyes and low-set brow- he’s truly a beast worthy of being feared. However, even with features such as his, Hanzo cannot help but find him… oddly charming. Curious. Hanzo gives him a nod in greeting as well, though still shifts in his spot when Mako grunts at him. 

Hanzo  _ thought _ he would be prepared for the malnourished man his father had mentioned. Then again, how was his father supposed to know that the ‘malnourished man’ in question was their  _ former court jester _ . 

Hanzo could’ve just ran right then and there. There was no way that the court jester Jamison Fawkes didn’t know who he was, even with a disguise on. It may have been years since Hanzo had last seen him, since he had been sentenced and subsequently broken out by two unknown individuals, but surely Jamison knew who he was. Mask be damned, someone who had been performing for his family for years before… that incident could not have  _ not _ known who he was. Hanzo had expected to see the same knowing look in his eyes that he had seen in Zenyatta’s- had tensed in preparation for his identity being revealed before he could even truly begin to gain their trust- and had been disturbed to hear not an accusation fly from Jamie’s lips, but a crazed cackle. 

Laughter bubbled out of Junkrat. Manic giggles that sent chills up Hanzo’s spine. And those eyes that he had expected to see as knowing were glassy and rabid when they locked on him.

Hanzo remembers bits and pieces- Jamison Fawkes, imprisoned for crimes against the court. Sentenced to death by hanging. Only a year or so ago, he had been broken out of prison, mere days before his execution. Hanzo had always wondered what had happened to the jester so long ago, he had even been just the tad bit glad that Jamie had been saved, though he couldn’t fathom why now. Looking at Junkrat, though, with crazed, glassy eyes, coming down from his bout of manic laughter, he wonders if this is truly better than death.

Could imprisonment really affect a person as deeply as it seemed to have affected Junkrat? 

For the first time he can remember, Hanzo feels guilt pluck at his heartstrings. A feeling that he quickly stifles- there is no time to dwell on things long past. The monk and the jester were concerns to save for later, seeing as they hadn’t exposed him now.

Hanzo barely even realizes that the small boy- Lucio- is saying anything to him, and, even then, he hears it as though he’s underwater. It’s only when the group all huddles around the table that he realizes he’s been lost in his own thoughts. With a physical jerk, he shakes himself out of it and strides over to the table. This must be when they count their pile of pilfered pences- Hanzo’s expression hardens, watching the troupe surround their infamous leader, all reaching for the table and scooping up shillings. Hanzo pushes himself up onto his tiptoes, eyes narrowed as he looks for gleaming gold in their greedy hands. The members all start to disperse and Hanzo whips his head around to get a glimpse of Hana ( _ even the small girl is corrupted by the group’s insatiable greed _ ), and sees her carrying-

Bread.

_ What. _

He’s shocked. Well, no, he is far more  _ angry _ than shocked. Is this some sort of game to McCree? Hanzo had tailed him for quite some time, when did he have a chance to-  _ oh _ . Was it when he lost him? Had he slipped away to hide the money in a secure location before Hanzo had found him again? Had he gone to purchase  _ bread- _ of all things- with his stolen funds? Why couldn’t he just steal the bread? He needed to know- so he couldn’t help but ask the outlaw. 

“Where is the money?”

Hanzo was not expecting McCree to look so surprised at his question. What other reason would he have to join a group of thieves, if not for the promise of riches? For a moment, that astonishment remains on the outlaw’s face and Hanzo has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Then, his expression hardens. His eyes narrow. McCree stands up straight and levels Hanzo with a carefully flat look that he cannot read. 

Hanzo bristles.  _ Why _ is he looking at him like  _ that? _ Such a question shouldn’t have been thought of as out of line. And it wasn’t as though he  _ wasn’t  _ allowed to ask McCree about the whereabouts of the funds he’s been pilfering from king and country. Hanzo crosses his arms over his chest and nods at a stray sweet roll, feeling a sneer tug at his lips that he barely manages to suppress as he continues on.

“I had heard you stole from the town treasuries. Is this not true? Are you,” Hanzo meets McCree’s eyes with his own, blatantly ignoring his clear irritation in the set of his jaw “some sort of petty bread thief instead? Are the tales I’ve heard of the Outlaw McCree and his band of merry men entirely unfounded?” 

The quiet that settles in the room is tense, stretched taut enough that it could be cut with a knife. He can hear himself breathing, which is rather unsettling when he realizes that means  _ everyone _ in the entire building has fallen hush. McCree unclenches his jaw and sucks in an audible breath through his nose.

“Jus’ a quick question for ya, Archer,” McCree starts, a hint of warning in his tone that Hanzo is able to pick up on, that has him straightening up as much as he can to attempt to put them on more level ground, “are y’around these parts?”

Ice pools rapidly in the pit of Hanzo’s stomach. Perhaps… he may have spoken too soon. Had accused the outlaw of something without even waiting to gather more information. Hanzo feels sweat on his brow. He is quickly realizing that he  _ may _ be out of his element. Espionage was never something that he was taught, and it shows in how quick he is to jump to a conclusion. He was sent out here for a  _ reason _ , one that he would see through to the end, and he had already hit multiple bumps in the road within a few hours of meeting the outlaw, and mere minutes after meeting the rest of his team. Hanzo takes in a gentle breath, choosing his words carefully. 

“No, I am not,” Hanzo replies, slow and measured. He takes the out that McCree has presented him with, though the other man remains tense as he explains himself, “I apologize for my outburst, but I had heard about you and your troupe a few kingdoms over. About your stealing from township treasuries-” 

“We do steal from the township treasuries.” 

_ What? _

Hanzo cocks a brow, sucks in a breath, and lets it out once more.  _ Do not jump to conclusions, _ he reminds himself, although another part of him wants to yell at the outlaw, to demand that he stop playing this game with him, and to tell him the truth. Hanzo manages to suppress that urge, barely, and continues on with his careful conversation. 

“If you do, then why do you have all this bread instead of money?”

The minutes drag on between them. Hanzo feels sweat beading on his brow, dripping down his forehead in a cold line only to stop where the leather of his mask is pressed against his skin. McCree’s eyes bore into him, watching Hanzo, searching his expression for  _ something _ . Hanzo keeps his face carefully blank, just as McCree had, and feigns innocence. He can only hope that his acting skills are up to par- it may be his only chance to find out where exactly the money that he had  _ watched  _ McCree steal had gone to. 

Just as Hanzo feels knots form in his midsection, McCree visibly relaxes. 

“‘Course, if y’ain’t from this kingdom, y’ain’t gonna know what’s goin’ on here,” the outlaw mumbles, more to himself than to Hanzo, before he addresses him once more, “sorry there, Archer, figured y’already knew the situation here in York, which is why y’wanted to join us.” 

Hanzo’s brows furrow, though there’s no way for the outlaw to see them as they’re hidden by his mask.  _ The situation? _ The only situation they have in York is the outlaw and his band of merry men making a right mess of things with their acts of thievery. Hanzo doesn’t say anything, only nods as McCree gestures to a spot on the bench he lowers himself onto. Cautiously, he moves to sit down next to the outlaw, wary of what his plans are. Things are much different than what he had been expecting. 

“So, Archer,” McCree begins, handing him the stray sweet roll on the table that has since cooled. Hanzo tries to resist, but the promise of sugar and the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach has him accepting the mystery bread more readily than he may have wanted to. The roll might not be warm anymore but it’s still practically heaven when the sweet hits his tongue. Hanzo is secretly a bit glad- he usually had to sneak sweets from the kitchen himself whenever a craving hit him. And, considering his wicked sweet tooth, he found himself sneaking out of the kitchen with pilfered pastries quite often. To indulge in his favorite type of food without having to hide it is heavenly. 

Hanzo keeps his eyes on McCree, trying to gingerly eat the sweet roll rather than scarf it down, as the outlaw launches into an explanation, “bein’ as yer comin’ from out of town, I’m guessin’ you don’t know the state of our good ol’ kingdom. ‘M sure wherever yer from knows about King Shimada, right?” 

Carefully, he nods, not trusting his voice to remain steady with a verbal answer. McCree takes that as it’s worth, continuing on, “well, not sure if you had a chance to do any sight-seeing before you found lil’ ol’ me, but our kingdom ain’t doing too well.” 

Hanzo cannot help but interrupt him at that. 

“Excuse me, outlaw, but from tales I’ve heard of York, I have heard your kingdom is quite prosperous.” Hanzo is glad that he’s able to deliver that statement in a delicate manner. Hearing McCree insult his kingdom as such has his blood boiling. It’s no small feat to hold back his biting comments as they threaten to burst from his lips. He knows that doing so won’t result in anything good for himself- he has to play the part, feign innocence, act as though he knows nothing other than that the outlaw and his troupe are great thieves.  _ Which _ , Hanzo thinks with a glance at the half-eaten sweetroll in his hand,  _ may not be true _ . 

McCree barks out a bitter laugh, a surprising tone for someone as seemingly jovial as he is. “Far from it, archer,” he practically snarls, turning away from Hanzo and leaning an arm on the wooden table, “this kingdom is in shambles, and it’s all that bastard king’s fault.” 

Anger flares up in Hanzo’s chest , biting and clawing at his insides, demanding to be released. How  _ dare _ some lowly thief call his father something so  _ heinous?!  _ He wants to… to scream at him, to blow his cover, defend his father’s honor. Sojiro Shimada is a great man- what does some infamous outlaw know about a king? The rage building in his breast threatens to spill out of him, a snarl tugging at his lips that he  _ almost _ lets show. He tamps it down, bites his tongue, and tilts his head in an inquisitive way.  _ Keep it together _ . McCree continues on, still not looking at Hanzo. 

“He’s overtaxing the people, has been for years an’ years. Every pence they manage to scrounge up jus’ gets collected and thrown in the treasuries, only to end up linin’ King Shimada’s coffers.” McCree bangs a gloved hand on the table, the subsequent noise echoing off the walls of the base and making Hanzo jump in his seat. He chances a look over at some of the other members of the troupe. At first glance, none of them seem concerned with what he and McCree are doing, but, if Hanzo looks for long enough, he can see them peeking over at the pair of them from time to time. Like they’re watching their great leader. 

Or keeping an eye on the newcomer. 

Hanzo focuses his attention on McCree, ignoring the anxiety running through his veins like ice. He’s being ridiculous. Two of the members are practically children, one is a monk, another is crazy and emancipated, and the only other one that poses a possible threat is large enough that Hanzo will likely be able to escape if he tries to approach with violent intent. There is nothing to fear around here, other than the outlaw and his large friend. And though the ice in the pit of his stomach says otherwise, he tamps those feelings down, and tunes in to McCree’s heated explanation of the king’s supposed wrongdoings. 

“His greed has made a right mess of York, damn it, and we’re fightin’ against him in the best way we can,” McCree turns his head to look at Hanzo, determination flaring up in his amber eyes. His lips quirk up at one end in a smirk that Hanzo finds himself taken aback by.  _ Oh _ . 

“We show the bastard how it feels to have every shiny shilling stolen right out from under his nose.” The outlaw grabs at the air between the two of them, curling his hand into a fist like he was physically trying to steal something. Hanzo screws up his eyes trying to watch the hand between them even as he leans backwards and away from it. No need to be that close to McCree’s fist. Hanzo purses his lips, rolling the outlaw’s words around in his head. If he was truly stealing from the town treasuries, why hadn’t riches been in the burlap sack he’d upended on the table? Shillings couldn’t turn into sweet rolls. 

“Understood,” Hanzo says carefully, meeting McCree’s twinkling eyes with his own, “but that still does not answer my original question. Where  _ is  _ the money that you steal from the treasuries?” 

McCree’s face falls flat, blinking rapidly at Hanzo as he shies backwards, fist falling to brace itself on the bench between them and the other raising to scratch at the back of his neck nervously. If Hanzo didn’t know better, he would’ve pegged the outlaw as embarrassed for having forgotten the point of his tirade in the first place. Rather than point it out, he crosses his arms over his chest and nods at McCree in hopes that he’d continue. 

“Sorry, Archer, got a bit carried away,” McCree apologizes, still looking sheepish even as he meets Hanzo’s eyes and gives him an apologetic smile. Hanzo grunts in response.  _ Get on with it already _ . If the outlaw and his band of thieves were not stealing from the township treasures then he truly had no reason to be here. He’d escape once they all fell asleep and make his way back to the castle to let his father know that his informants had been incorrect. Hopefully whatever rage that he’d most certainly have would not be directed at-

“We give it back.” 

Hanzo snaps his gaze up from where he’d been unfocusing, falling prey to his thoughts, to lock eyes with McCree.  _ Give it back? _ The mask hides the way his brows furrow from the outlaw’s sharp eyes, although his confusion is evident in how he opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. Multiple starts to sentences that he doesn’t know the end of are on the tip of his tongue before dying as he closes his mouth once more. McCree, thankfully, doesn’t wait for Hanzo’s brain to catch up with his mouth, and forges on with his explanation without any prompting.

“So, yeah, y’know,” he flicks his gaze away from Hanzo’s, turning in his seat and leaning his back against the table, braced on his elbows, “do the whole do an’ dare, empty the coffers of the money that King Shimada got no right demandin’ of the townsfolk, and then we give it-” 

“Pardon me, McCree, but… who  _ exactly _ do you give it back to?” Hanzo interrupts, cutting the outlaw off in his impatience. McCree falters, brows furrowing as he swallows down his sentence only to start it where he’d left off, an inquisitive quirk to one of his brows. 

“Back to the townspeople, of course.” 

\-------------------------------

The forest is quiet, save for lazy crickets singing in the trees and the occasional hooting of wayward owls. Hanzo appreciates it- the silence makes it easier to think. And the night air’s chill certainly helps too, clearing his head. He leans against the bark of the giant hollowed-out redwood and tilts his head up, blankly staring at the tree tops surrounding the clearing where McCree’s base is. Hanzo sucks in a bracing breath, eyes slipping shut as thoughts swirl around in his head, unbidden, knocking at his skull with increasing demand. He tries to parse through everything that happened today, brows furrowing behind his mask. 

_ He gives money back to the townspeople _ .

Did McCree  _ really _ think that Hanzo would believe such a blatant lie?

He snorts derisively, pushing himself away from the redwood and taking a few steps towards the wood surrounding the grove. McCree must think him a fool. Perhaps his lie had worked for the other people in his troupe but it would absolutely not work on Hanzo. McCree could not pull the wool over his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. He must’ve stashed the money away when Hanzo had lost him earlier. 

And his blatant disrespect for his father.  _ Gods _ . Just remembering what he’d said had Hanzo’s blood boiling. There was absolutely no way that his father would overtax the people. For Gods’ sake, he was even going out of his way to send someone to take care of their bandit problem in the first place. 

Hanzo turns in place to look at the dilapidated building that houses McCree and his band of merry men, eyes narrowed. However genuine McCree tried to make himself seem, Hanzo knew he couldn’t trust him. Thieves by trade had silver tongues. To believe someone who made it their purpose in life to steal from others was foolish and he would  _ not _ be made a fool. McCree might’ve been able to convince the rest of his troupe of his father’s supposed misdeeds but Hanzo knew better- his father is a great man and a greater king. Nothing that the outlaw claimed would change what Hanzo  _ knew _ .

He wouldn’t believe a damn thing that rogue tried to tell him until he saw proof with his own two eyes.

With a shake of his head, he starts making his way back towards the base, determination in every footfall. Hanzo scales the side wall of McCree’s base and climbs in through the window of his temporary ‘quarters’- if a barren room with naught but a mattress filled with hay counted as quarters- that he’d slipped out of earlier. Keeping his mask on, Hanzo unhooks his cloak from around his neck and lays down on the lumpy, makeshift bed while situating his cloak over his person. It’s certainly not his bed back home, but it would do for how long he’d be here. The excitement of the day and the previous day’s travels weigh on him more so now that he’s laying down. The outlaw, chasing him through the forest, McCree’s troupe, the presence of two people from his past- it all settles in his bones, taxing and heavy. His eyes close before he realizes it.

Hanzo slips into a dreamless sleep with the forest’s lethargic song echoing off the oaks and pines. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi!! you've made it to the end of this chapter!! thank you so much for reading i hoped you enjoyed it!! come pester me on tumblr at cawaiiey or twitter @cawaiiey_ !

**Author's Note:**

> the beginning  
> of my first multichapter fic in months  
> ny'all better be ready for this


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